


The Lily Farm

by galadrieljones



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abduction, Adult Content, Alternate Ending, Angst, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Backstory, Banter, Brotherhood, Canon Divergence, Deep Emotions, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Elaborate Cons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epiphanies, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fatherhood, Fix-It, Fluff and Humor, Forests, Found Families, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hosea calling in favors from all corners of the West, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Minor John Marston/Abigail Roberts, Mutual Pining, Poker, Protective Arthur, Redemption, Sexual Content, Sexual Themes, Sharing a Bed, Shotgun Wedding, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Violence, Wedding Bells
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2019-09-15 08:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 151,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16929900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galadrieljones/pseuds/galadrieljones
Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey to the north, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. They’ve been friends for a while now, but life, like the wilderness, is full of uncertainty and complications, and as they embark on their desperate search for meaning together, they endure many trials, some small, some big—all of which bring them closer to one another, and to their future.





	1. A Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Breakdown:
> 
>  **Part I:** _A Funeral For Sean MacGuire_ (Ch. 1-15)  
>  **Part II:** _American Dreaming_ (Ch. 16-28)  
>  **Part III:** _American Pastoral_ (Ch. 29-?)
> 
> Comments are deeply appreciated!! You can also find me, my art, and more of my writing on [tumblr](http://galadrieljones.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I add tags as I go. Updates will be as often as possible till complete. Thank you for reading. ^_^
> 
> -gala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Part I: A Funeral for Sean MacGuire**

It was morning, and the sun was creeping, and he was on his third cigarette with his hands in the soil, picking thyme flowers. They grew like wild out here. He had removed his gloves and set them back on the saddle where Sarah shuffled against the brush, her big hooves. He took enormous comfort in the sounds of her hooves.

When he returned to camp, it was still quiet. This swamp country stank. He did not take well to it. In ways he wished to return to the mountains where at least the air felt clean of infectious filth. His lungs hardened. In the swamp everything was soft and this made it feel like sinking. Even his internal organs felt soft. His skin, his eyes. Everything but his hands, which were hard leather mitts, but that was an old complaint that only women noticed anymore. The other day, he picked up a bucket of water for Mary Beth, and she commented on them, asking if she could see.

“Your knuckles are cracked to high heaven, Arthur Morgan.” That is what she said as she held one of his big stupid hands in hers. He knew it was not a compliment. Mary Beth was canny. She would read her books and write in their margins with the fountain pen he had brought for her, a thing he’d found in a dark corner of some abandoned cottage near Emerald Station. Sometimes, she got the ink on her hands, which were much softer than his, in the winter regions and in the swamps. He carried that bucket for her that day and he filled it for the wash, which she would later do, and any time she did it, he swore his shirts came out smelling more like lavender than before.

He put all the thyme in a basket, which he carried back to camp, holding Sarah by her reins. He spat and smoked and chewed a little tobacco and then he found a little mint, which he chewed as well and some of which he stored for later. His eyes were tired but his back still felt strong. He did not think of himself as a young man or old. In fact, he did not think of himself much at all.

He gave the thyme to Miss Grimshaw. Tilly said hello to him and showed him some of her knitting. She was good at little things like that, he so often thought. He fed the horses with help from Lenny who then went away to brood quietly beneath a Tupelo. The day was coming alive. He heard Jack’s voice somewhere and the dog. He did not want to go too near the fire for fear that he would be harangued by one of the boys, and he was not in the mood. He did not feel like robbing that day.

He went back to the house to find Mary Beth, a sort of habit. She was out on the porch, doing her reading and her writing in the margins as usual. She had her hair out of her braids and a cup of coffee and a piece of bread on a tin plate. When he came out onto the porch the floorboards creaked, and she looked up as if alarmed. But she kind of smiled a little sly when she saw him, and then she went back to her book. As usual, he felt a little dumb but it was all right. He lit another cigarette and stood out there, just looking at the unlucky country that was the swamp. He breathed and felt that smoke rattling in his swampy lungs.

“Hey, Arthur,” she said, not looking up from her book.

He had his hands on his hips. He went and sat down on the other side of the sofa. It was a cold and ragged sofa. It barely had any stuffing left at all. “My lady,” he said, absentminded. He rested his elbows on his knees for a minute. He leaned and took his journal out his back pocket. He thought he might maybe sketch a dumb plant or something. Maybe the surface of the water and how it did not hardly move.

They sat like that for a while. No talking. It was only the scratching of their pencils. Out front of the house you could hear Bill getting his bullshit on first thing in the morning, and Karen who seemed to cackle, and more Jack playing round with the dog. Abigail had grown a little sullen since his kidnapping and return. John went to her each night now. Arthur didn’t much know or care what had begun to rekindle between them, if anything at all, but he did notice a change. For the better, of course, when it came to the happiness of the boy.

“Arthur,” said Mary Beth after a little while.

“Yes,” said Arthur. He had sketched a dense stretch of pussy willow. For all of its despair, the swamp did make for nice scenery.

Mary Beth closed her book. She straightened up then as if she were about to say something important. Arthur looked at her. “What’s the matter?” he said.

“Remember when Sean died,” she said, looking at him. She was concerned.

He bit the insides of his cheeks like an old habit. “I do.”

She sighed like she felt stupid. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Mary Beth. What’s on your mind?”

She turned to him with her knees. Somewhere, there was a big, ugly sound like a gaggle of birds, pitching off into the daylight. “Afterward, you kind of…disappeared.”

“I don’t know that I’d call that disappearing, Mary Beth,” said Arthur. “Disappearing is disappearing. You don’t come back.”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “It was almost two weeks before you returned.

“And?”

“Where did you go?” she said. She had begun to examine her fingernails. “We was all wondering. The girls. You know we worry about you.”

“I know.” He waved her off. He fashioned a toothpick from behind his ear and set it between his teeth. “Ain’t no reason to worry.”

“Yeah well, you would say that.”

“I was hunting,” said Arthur. He looked at her. She had a calm disposition but there were storms inside. “I took my old horse, Diana. We rode north of the Grizzlies. We camped the whole way and we hunted a bison.”

“A bison?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mary Beth got quiet in her hands and face. “That is what you did, then? To process his passing.”

Arthur sighed. He wrung his hands a little. “I suppose. It really ain’t much, Mary Beth.”

“It is,” she said. She was getting earnest now. She had red cheeks. “Was it something?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, was it something? Getting away like that. Being up there, just you and Diana.”

“Diana didn’t much like it,” said Arthur. “I retired her shortly thereafter. Her hooves took a beating on those trails.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he said, looking at her, chewing that toothpick. “You holding up okay? I know you and Sean was close.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Mary Beth, shrugging. She set the book aside and looked out at the swampy expanse. “He was kind of a fuck-up.”

Arthur laughed. “Ain’t we all.”

“You held him tight though,” she said, looking. “You were good to him, even though he had it coming.”

“He was young,” said Arthur.

“Some of the girls said you felt responsible. But it wasn’t your doing. It wasn’t, Arthur. Nobody blames you but you.”

Arthur did not speak.

Flies were buzzing everywhere all around them, like a symphony. It was hot out, and very humid.

“I should say, I would like to go hunting,” said Mary Beth, after a little while.

“You?” he said. “A hunter?”

“After mama died I hunted some.”

Arthur laughed. “Shooting snakes with bb guns ain’t hunting, Mary Beth.”

She shoved him. “It was a rifle,” she said. “And it wasn’t snakes. I shot a squirrel.”

“A squirrel?” He acted impressed. “That would be a sight to see.”

They both smiled. “I would like to go hunting for something big,” she said. “Arthur. I need to process all of this, too. I am so bored, I think the pleats in my skirt have lost their stick.”

“That would be the humidity, I expect,” he said.

“Please?” she said.

“Please what?”

“Next time you go, hunting. For something big, far away. Camping and such. Breathing the air. Let me come with you.”

He gave her a look. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, sir.”

He raised his eyebrows, considering her offer. “It ain’t all romantic in the sights of nature,” he said. “It ain’t comfortable living out there, Mary Beth. The way I do things.”

“I know that,” she said. “You don’t think I understand _uncomfortable_ living, Arthur Morgan?”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” said Arthur. “I know you can hold your own.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“I don’t know the next time I’ll be going, Mary Beth. These ain’t really affairs that take much planning. I pretty much just get on my horse and ride.”

“I am just as good at that as you are, Arthur.”

“Riding horses?”

“No, silly. Living spontaneously.”

Arthur thought on this. He had never considered his way of life to be spontaneous. He often felt over-encumbered by the knowledge he was forced to use forever when stepping into the dangers of the wilderness. “You may be right,” he said after a little while. “And I suppose you have a point.”

“So you’ll take me with you?”

“That, I will,” said Arthur, sending a smile. “I don’t know when. Could be tomorrow. Could be in two weeks.”

Mary Beth was overtaken with excitement. She grabbed his face. She kissed him on the temple, smelling like apples. “I will be ready,” she said, and she got up to go, like she was going to get ready right now.

“Where you going?” he said, still sitting there. He liked her company.

“Got to prepare,” she said. “Mentally. I got another book I want to read.”

“We ain’t going this instant.”

“I know, Arthur Morgan,” she said, smiling. She left her book. “I know.”

When she was gone, he looked at her book and how it was perfectly sitting there, some shimmery thread in the binding. Out on the swamp he saw one of those gators then, just sitting there like a lump. It was a dumbass but it was a danger to the undiscerning. He got up to go warn the caretakers of the camp, and then to get his rifle off his horse, for he was going to shoot it dead.


	2. Inside

About a week later, while asleep in the hotel above the saloon in St. Denis, Arthur had a dream. He dreamed that he had killed and skinned a polar bear, and he had stepped inside of its skin whole. It was wet and chilled inside. He lived there for ten whole years while in the dream, aging and growing soft for his lack of movement and oxygen. Just as he was about to die from starvation, he realized he had grown a beard, and he stepped out of the polar bear skin and back into the world which had all burned while he was away. The cities and the railroads were all ashes, and the trees were black sticks going straight up into the sky. It was a hellscape. Everyone he had ever known was dead.

When he awoke, he was out of sorts. He looked around at the empty room and he fell into a kind of panic. He was thinking about Mary. He had forgotten what year it was and what day it was and he realized that when he was looking around, he was looking for Mary. Where was Mary? He was looking for Mary, and he was thinking about her, and about her skin for some reason, and of all the things about her, he thought of her skin and the ways he once knew its shapes and colors. Why was he thinking of her skin. And then he realized that, along with her skin and the way she felt and the way he felt when he was inside of her—all that had faded now, in his memory like an old pair of boots. He could not remember. It all happened so fast. It was a complete shock.

It had been such a long time since he’d been with any woman in any meaningful way. He never thought much of it, but now, he asked himself why. Why, Arthur. Why. He should have married Mary. He should have just married her, he thought. Fuck her father, fuck Dutch. That was his anxious brain now at the age of thirty-six. He should have married Mary Linton and put a child in her, and they should have lived somewhere in the warm woods far away where it snowed in winter and it was his only job to chop firewood and perhaps be some sort of warden in the local town. He should have been a fisherman. He should have been a trapper. He should have gone to college. He should have been a father. Where was Mary. His heart was beating like a fucking drum in his chest. He held himself until the panic went away and then he curled back into a ball beneath the smooth covers and he tried to close his eyes and return to sleeping, but that was all he could do. His body and his mind. His whole soul was awake. He felt ruined.

Downstairs in the saloon the next morning he had a bowl of soup and the bartender was a nice man who tried to make conversation. He wanted to talk about Arthur’s hat and thought the red feather in its strap was neat. Arthur tried making good with the bartender. He did not wish to seem surly as he knew he looked surly. He smiled and tried to explain the origin of the hat, but the bartender was shining a glass and seemed confused.

“You skinned an elk for that?” he said casually.

Arthur didn’t know how this could possibly be so unbelievable. He had skinned much worse than elk for must less than hats. He finished his soup and tipped his feathered hat, and he went outside to feed and water Sarah. Then he was on his way.

This city is getting in my blood, he thought. It’s getting in my dreams. He rode out into the swamps to fish. But Sarah drew constantly skittish due to the gators. He was sick of killing them, as they were a waste of bullets, but they always seemed to be getting in his way. He caught a fourteen pound catfish and then another. He killed and pruned a white heron for its decorative feathers. He cooked its tough meat over a spit and ate it while surrounded by wet bugs and trees. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard a woman screaming. He stood up with his ears wide open and his shot gun in his hand for five whole minutes trying to hear it again.

“My fucking imagination,” he said, tucking away the shotgun and sucking on a sugar cube. He was out of smokes. He bit his nails a little and drank some water, and after heading back to the butcher to sell off his catch, he bought a pack of cigarettes and a new neckerchief and then he rode back to Shady Belle.

 _I have been actually choked,_ he wrote in his journal, still saddled on Sarah just outside the perimeter of their camp. He smoked. _I have been actually choked by a man’s bare hands and yet it is nothing so suffocating as this swamp. If I have to kill one more gator to save my horse from heart failure, I may just lose my composure. I have thought of beating men senseless and I have done it on occasion. This place has sucked a great deal of life from my bones. I need to get the fuck out of here, if only for seven days._

That night, he ate a little stew and drank whiskey to calm his nerves. Javier wrangled him into a game of poker, which he won handily, and then he decided to cash in and go to bed. Javier took to playing his guitar, and some of the boys continued to drink. Dutch was somewhere else in the camp, limited in his interactions and stewing in his obsessions. Arthur did not wish to speak to him that night. He was still tainted by that dream and did not wish to speak to most anyone about anything beyond the most surface level conversations.

Inside, he ran into Mary Beth again. In the dining room, she was having a conversation with Karen. The two of them seemed overcome with their private laughter. Seeing them like this, these women for whom, in some wide, chivalrous sense, he felt an overwhelming responsibility, it was a reassurance. There they were, existing. He thought the two of them were more like opposites—Mary Beth and Karen, but watching now, he supposed that opposites can attract. Karen was crass and immediate while Mary Beth approached all of her airs with distance. She was too sharp. They were sitting at the dining room table drinking bottles of beer by lamplight, and when they saw him, they invited him to come sit and to have a drink with them. At first, he thought to decline, but then Mary Beth held out a bottle like a right welcome, and with this small interaction, he gave in. Inside, it was softer. They taught him a card game he had never played before, one he would forget by morning, but it was exciting. Lots of slapping the table, and there was this entire mechanic where you had to hide a wooden spoon near your person and if somebody stole it from you, the hand ended, and you lost. They played several hands. Arthur won two out of three. When Karen left to get a refill on their bottles, he put his elbows on the table and breathed steadily. He felt something small release inside his heart, just sitting there, but he wasn't sure why.

He felt Mary Beth's hand on his then, a fast touch, then gone. "You all right, Arthur?"

He looked up and half-smiled. "Why do you ask, Mary Beth?"

She shrugged. "You seem tense. Then again that's not all that unusual."

"It was a long day," he said, shifting in his chair. He felt big at that table. 

“What happened?" she said.

"Nothing much to make it seem long. It just felt long."

"I get that."

"What happened around here? I heard Hosea killed a damn gator."

"He did!" said Mary Beth. She was laughing. "You ought to have seen it. I think he emptied a full chamber on that bastard and it was still waddling away. Anyway, it's dead now. I think Pearson put it in the stew."

"Yuck," said Arthur. "I thought that stew tasted a bit green."

"You should check on Hosea and his heart health," said Mary Beth, sliding the deck of cards across the table to him. "He's too old for that sort of activity, Arthur."

Arthur laughed. “Old Hosea will be fine," he said. "But I'll be sure to check on him anyway."

He lit a cigarette. She asked if she could have one, too. He lit it for her off the end of his, and they sat there, smoking, ashing right on to the table. There was a fly inside, bouncing off the lantern like some sort of idiot. Arthur swatted at it once, and it went away.

"So," said Mary Beth.

"So."

"What are you gonna do tomorrow, Arthur? You heading back to St. Denis?”

He studied the lit end of his cigarette. He remembered that goddam polar bear. He shook out his head. "No, no. I was thinking of leaving the swamps," he said. He looked at her. "I tell you this place is full of ghosts. Old things and people, ideas I can’t contend with no more."

"Where will you go, Arthur?”

"North."

“North for what?”

“Moose,” he said, giving her a look. “I’ve got it all marked on my map. Big moose there's supposed to be, up in the Roanoke Valley. I was thinking of heading up there to hunt a little."

She smiled like a lightbulb. She caught his meaning. She reached across the table and put her hands on his shoulders. “Moose hunting?”

“Yes, ma’am."

"Can I come with?"

"It’s a long ride," he said, dipping his cigarette into the table top. "Will you be all right?”

"You know it."

“That’s what I thought.”

“We're leaving in the morning?" she said, excited. "What time?"

"Sometime after first light," he said. "If you could get some provisions together, for us and the horses, that would be useful. About a week's worth and we can hunt the rest."

"I can do that," she said, sitting up real tall. "And warm clothes?"

Arthur nodded. "Warm clothes," he said. "And I mean it, too. Don't be dainty. You got a bed roll with wool or something?"

"I do."

“I’ll take care of the artillery,” said Arthur. “Make sure you’ve got a sturdy saddle on your filly. I can lend you one, if you need it."

“I’m good,” she said proudly. “I sold a couple a pocket watches last week, and just the other day I purchased a brand new saddle at the stables in St. Denis. I had them beat it with hammers to make the leather real soft.”

“That must have run you extra,” said Arthur, smiling. He shuffled the deck of cards. “Good thinking though.”

“I am always thinking, Arthur,” said Mary Beth, resting her chin in her hands, dreamy. She watched him shuffle those cards like it was no tomorrow. “Just like you.”

“I don’t know about that, Miss Mary Beth,” he said. “But I thank you anyway.”

"This is gonna be fun, Arthur," she said, smiling. "I know it. In my bones."

 _I sure hope so,_ he thought.

She sighed long and loud. That is when Karen came back with the beers, and she began to tease them. “You two talking about philosophies of the weather or something?” she said. “You look about hundred miles in love.” And she laughed.

Arthur was a little confused by this, in a literal sense. He tried to figure out what the hell she meant by _philosophies of the weather._ “You know I met, uh—an archaeologist a few months back,” he said, dealing them each a hand of cards. “I don’t know nothing about the weather, but she showed me a gotdamn dinosaur’s rib cage. She was digging it right out of the ground.”

“A _dinosaur?_ ” said Karen. She flew up with laughter. "You got to be kidding me."

“Oh my god,” said Mary Beth. “Do you remember where it was?”

“Not really,” said Arthur, smiling at her. Of course he did, but he didn’t feel like remembering. He just took a drink from his beer. What had happened to him? Was he awake? “Now," he said, "am I dealing, ladies, or are we gonna talk nonsense all night?” 

“Deal, Mr. Morgan,” said Karen. She had big rosy cheeks. It felt like a party, but it was any other day. “And do not expect any easy favors from us, not this time.”

“Oh I would not dare, Miss Karen,” said Arthur. In his ears, his voice sounded like gravel. But there was a fire in the hearth. It was almost enough to make him feel safe again.


	3. Poor, Unfortunate Souls

They rode off the next day about seven in the a-m. Mary Beth’s filly Apaloosa was a good size, and her name was Winston. Mary Beth herself was a good rider, a fact of which Arthur was aware, but what he did not know was that she tended to get distracted quite easily. Arthur himself liked to stop and take in sights for sketching, but with Mary Beth, he noticed that she did not really desire to all out stop, she just liked to slow a lot, trotting along to survey the terrain, or to squint at something in the distance that he most certainly could not see. She rarely spoke out loud about it. This was a nice thing about Mary Beth—she did not have to say everything that was on her mind. It was somewhat of a relief. She did like to talk, but when she did, it always felt like there was a purpose to it. Even if that purpose was simple. She didn’t make much for idle chit chat, but he did sometimes, and so he could speak a little bit, and then she was always glad to respond and she could go and go and go if they got on a topic they both liked and understood. She was also very interested in Arthur himself. She liked to know all about him, all about his feelings and his past. He didn’t have many people for this—interested in what it was that went on inside his head. They only needed him for what he could do.

As they got on, late into the morning, he rode a little bit ahead, but he tried not to get too far. He was determined not to be in a hurry but this first day was making him realize that his typical way of doing things was perhaps a little fast. He was not used to company in the wild and so he tried to slow down because that wasn’t the point. In fact, he was not yet sure what the point was, whether it was more to hunt a moose, get free, or just to be with Mary Beth. Sometimes he felt more complicated than he thought he deserved to be. Like that a man who has killed as many other men as he—he was not entitled to his depths. He thought most of the time he ought to just shut the fuck up and get on dealing with this unclear life, but then he would come upon somebody he actually enjoyed being with, and that changed things. He thought sometimes he still hung onto Mary because she had made him feel that way, too. But that was all in the past as she was back on a train somewhere, god only knows. And so he flung all thought of her away, off a cliff, and tried to face forward for a while.

For further supplies and ammunition, they made a stop in St. Denis. The streets were crowded that morning, and the sky was filled with its requisite pollution clouds. Mary Beth was a little thrilled to be in the city, but she also drew a little unsure of herself once they hitched their horses and went over to the gun store. She walked with her head down a little, and she would look around suspiciously from time to time.

When Arthur asked her what was wrong, she said every time she came to St. Denis she felt enchanted by the lights and cobblestone streets but she also felt she did not fit in.

“I ain’t like these people, Arthur,” she said. “You ain’t either. Don’t you feel it? Or, maybe you don't?”

Arthur thought on this.

“I do,” he said, nodding. He felt bigger than everyone in St. Denis. He felt wider. He felt sometimes like he couldn’t fit through their delicate doorways, designed for frenchmen in fancy suits. “But it’s all just a bunch of feathers, Mary Beth," he went on. "There are good people, and there are bad people, just like in our world. It’s just that here, they smell nicer, so it ain't always easy to tell.”

This made Mary Beth laugh. He adjusted his hat and held the door for her to the gun shop. A little bell rang over head. They went inside and were greeted by the shopkeeper. “You smell fine, Arthur Morgan,” she said. "You smell like mint, and tobacco. Like man, of course, but that is to be expected."

Arthur blushed. It was an uncommon thing to hear. “I suppose I’ll take that as compliment,” he said, though he did double check once she was past, just to make sure she wasn’t only being nice. He’d had a bath two days before in the saloon hotel so actually, for once, it truly wasn’t that bad.

While in the gun shop, Arthur purchased many rounds of ammunition for many different kinds of guns. Mary Beth purchased a shotgun with sturdy handling and a bag full of slugs. When they road out the city, Arthur stopped them at a marshy tributary of the Kamassa River, and he was keen to give her a little bit of a lesson on that gun.

“I can use a shotgun, Arthur,” said Mary Beth. There were bugs buzzing in their ears. "I ain't a invalid."

“I know,” he said, swatting. “This one’s heavy though, Mary Beth. It ain’t a sawed-off. It'll handle different, I promise.”

“I suppose you're right,” she said.

They tied up their horses. They went through some simple things. Mary Beth shot a turtle and then felt badly about it.           

“You didn’t kill it,” said Arthur, squinting as they watched it hobbling away into the marsh. “You just…dented it a little.”

“I don’t like shooting animals,” she said. “Unless I’m eating.”

“We can eat a turtle,” he said. “In fact, I know a decent recipe for the soup. But like I said, it’s getting away. There it goes. It's gone now." He waved. "Bye, Mr. Turtle.”

She shoved him in the shoulder. It gave them both a laugh.

After they finished, they each had a can of beans and shared a fresh peach for lunch. They fed their horses. They sat on a blanket by the water. The weather was warm. Arthur loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves. “Mary Beth,” he said at some point where they sat, with their legs out, looking at the water.

"Yes, Arthur."

“That gun," he said, "for you—don’t you go shooting unless you absolutely must. And I mean _absolutely._ You understand?”

“I know, Arthur.”

“Yeah, I know you know," he said, smoking a cigarette. "I just—I don’t mean to be patronizing. I just needed to reiterate. For my own reassurance.”

She blushed a little and ate a piece of the peach. “Reiteration achieved,” she said. And she saluted him.

They rode again, and this time, into the early evening. There were few horses out that day but plenty of wagons heading down south to St. Denis. This was kind of a strange place, where they were. Arthur didn’t altogether like or trust it, so he took them out west a bit, en route toward Emerald Station—a longer way, but with the sun on its way out, he wasn’t interested in escorting Mary Beth through the unmitigated horrors of the Bayou and the Blue Water Marsh. It’s not like she was dainty, but as he was no man of the southern tradition, and there was little he could do to predict the codeless tactics of cannibals and raping racists. He did not even know how well he could protect himself, let alone himself plus a pretty girl. He almost always avoided the marshes at night.

They rode about till dusk, making it all the way up to south of the stables near Dewberry Creek. Arthur had wanted to make it to Emerald Station by nightfall, but with two of them, and their extended lunch in the marshes, the day had gone slower than he anticipated. So he decided that, rather than try and ride into nightfall, when the old creatures and the monsters and the weirdos come out, they’d head off the road and make camp early, when they could still catch view of the horizon.

They came upon a covered bridge. With the dusk was coming fog. Arthur felt a chill, like maybe something wasn’t right. They idled at the bridge.

“I was thinking,” he said to Mary Beth, leaning and petting Sarah’s mane with his hand, “we could find a good spot up yonder. Rather than pushing through into the night. What do you think?”

Mary Beth was glancing around. She finished off an apple then tossed the core to the earth. “I think that’s wise,” she said. “Plus I’m getting hungry. I mean, for more than just fruit.”

“Me, too,” said Arthur. He resituated his coat and his hat and lit a smoke. They trotted the length of the bridge side by side. Mary Beth made a joke about rivers that Arthur laughed at but would soon forget. At the end of the bridge, Arthur’s horse shuffled around like she was disturbed. She was a fast trotter, but a skittish animal

“Whoa, girl,” he said, reining her gently. "Whoa. Whoa."

“Arthur,” said Mary Beth. " _Arthur._ "

“What is it?”

That is when he looked up, and that is when they were approached. Three men on foot, one with his shotgun brandished at his hip, another holding a torch, standing at the end of the bridge. They were nasty characters, wearing plain clothes and with teeth missing. Arthur knew right off what was going on and signaled for Mary Beth to make a full stop. "Hold up," he said, real low.

The men stood in a row. The first one was chewing something. He spat right onto the surface wood of the bridge, a big nasty mouthful of brown juice. “Howdy,” he said. He wore a porkpie hat. “Fine evening.”

“Indeed,” said Arthur, still with the cigarette hanging out his mouth. “How can we help you boys?”

“We’ll be taking your horse,” said the man, raising his shotgun a little. He surveyed the scene, the situation, raised it higher. “And all your money, of course." He seemed to think on it then, rearrange his plans. "And the girl.”

Mary Beth seemed to take offense. "Fat chance," she said.

Arthur shushed her, made kind of a low chuckle. “That is amusing, good sir," he said. "But I am afraid we'll have to decline."

"Excuse me kindly."

"Why don’t you just move aside?” said Arthur, very serious then, laying his hand on the grip of his pistol.

The man in the hat became angered maybe then. Emboldened by Arthur's aloofness. He picked his gun up a little higher in response. His voice got louder. "Dismount your horse," he said.

Arthur raised his eyebrows, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, and surveyed its burning ending. Then he flicked it the earth and gave all three of the men a long, lazy look in the twilight. At first, he did not speak.

“Did you hear me, boy?”

“Arthur?” said Mary Beth, in a high whisper. She did not sound scared, merely ready. “What do I do.”

Arthur's voice was low, barely more than gravel. "Don't touch that gun, Mary Beth."

She nodded, waited.

“You got till the count of five,” said the man in the hat now. He was a brave soul.

“Oh yeah?" said Arthur. "Five? And then what?” 

“And then I shoot,” said the man. He set his sights on Arthur. "You, then the girl." Nobody moved. “One…two…”   

Arthur rolled his eyes then. It was almost in slow motion. But he drew his pistol at a whip speed, and inside of three seconds, shot two of the men dead. The third got spooked, dropped his torch, and ran off. It was over, just like that.

“Shit,” said Arthur, watching the third man go, squinting into the advancing night. A bunch of birds had taken off at the ringing of his pistol. It was still smoking. He settled Sarah a little without even paying her a glance. He was trying to decide whether to take off after the man on horseback, or to concede. “Where’d he go?” He chose to concede. But then.

“Sweet fucking Christmas, Arthur Morgan.”

Mary Beth’s voice was high and exasperated. It was such an unusual sound—he did not usually hear women’s voices in moments like these. It yanked him out of his trance. “Excuse me?”

“You blew their heads clean off!”

He just stared at her. She was giving him a kind of scolding look as he came back into their reality. “Yeah, I know,” he said, scratching behind his ear. He holstered his pistol. “I didn’t want that, but what would you have had me do instead? Let them take you?”

She trotted her horse up to the mess. Brains and blood all over the bridge. “Geesh.”

“It was them or us, Mary Beth.”

She sighed again. “Oh, Arthur.”

He did not know what to say.

Suddenly then, she was off her horse. And then she was on her knees beside one of the dead men. She was rifling through their pockets. Arthur came to again and looked around in sudden clarity. Whoever that man was who got away, he might be coming back with law, and that was not good. “Mary Beth,” he said, hurried. “What on god’s earth are you doing?”

“You shot the fellers. Least we can do is rob them.”

Arthur shook out his head. His horse was shifting. “I have committed murder in semi-daylight,” he said. “One of them got away. We need to leave. I don’t need no more bounties in New Hannover territory, Miss Mary Beth.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “But at least this way their deaths was worth something.”

“Their deaths was worth your life.”

She waved him off, picking through the second dead man’s jacket. “Got a couple wedding bands here,” she said. “Gold. Real nice. Married and dumb, I see. Fuckin idiots.”

Arthur lit a cigarette, a nervous habit. He was keeping watch. “All right. Grab those and let’s get a move on now. Come on.”

“Got em,” she said. And then she tucked the rings and a couple watches into her dress pocket, plus a handful of change and she mounted her horse. “All’s good, lieutenant. Let’s ride.”

He laughed at this. She was awful funny. He trotted out front. “You are a brave woman,” he said.

“Wasn’t I who done the shooting.”

“Don’t take much guts to shoot two men in the head like that, Mary Beth. Just skill.”

“Yeah well, you call it what you want it. But I know what I know. And I know it was them or us, Arthur. I do. I’m just making it hard for you is all. I am grateful.”

He smoked, smirking in a bashful quiet. This he did not expect. “Okay then," he said. "Don’t mention it. Let's just go."

They picked up and rode like hell past the river. Arthur took them off the trail in a short while, and they built a fire and Mary Beth prepared a little venison for their dinner, with a couple cans of carrots on the side. They made camp, and they had dinner, just as the sun sank out of view, soaking the whole sky with its fiery farewell.


	4. A Kept Man

After dinner, Mary Beth uncorked a bottle of bourbon she had snuck from the camp’s stock.

“Don’t let Karen know you took that,” said Arthur, smiling. She poured him a little into his tin cup. “She’ll feel left out.”

“Oh Karen can blow her whistle all day long. She knows where the booze is.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

The sky was big overhead. Like a huge river of stars. Arthur liked this part of New Hanover. He missed Valentine. He went back there some weeks to pontificate. Towns and cities and things, they were better when the roads were all dirt and the people lacked pretension. He watched Mary Beth in how she regarded the deep greens and blues of her surroundings. She had a dreamy way about her in how she would put her chin in her hand and just look around at the world as if she were both filled with a deep wisdom on its natural charms and beauties and also seeing it for the first time. She was probably the nicest girl he had ever known—since Eliza, maybe. That was an old wound. He situated himself by the fire, leaning against a big rock and drinking from his cup. Mary Beth smoked a cigarette and offered him one, but he declined. The night felt very late, but Arthur knew that it was not. It was only the early fall season. He checked the watch in his pocket—a quarter to nine. He deliberated on whether he would prefer to sleep early and get a jump on the next day, or just let the night unfold. He did not feel particularly tired that day.

After a little while, Mary Beth spoke. She was looking at him like his face were some complicated puzzle, and she had begun sorting through the pieces on her own. “Arthur,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“I often wonder what you were like before I met you.”

“Ain’t much to know,” he said.

“Maybe that’s not it,” she said. “Maybe I wonder what you’d be like in another life.”

He kind of focused in on her. It was an odd sentiment. “How do you mean?”

“Like,” she said. “Would you have gone to college?”

He felt himself blushing, laughing a little. “I don’t know about that, Mary Beth. I don’t think I’m particularly cut out for the collegiate life.”

“Oh, I do,” she said. “I think you’re perfect. Or maybe once. Probably you’re too old now.” She sort of nudged him, it was a joke. “Only fooling.”

“I know. But I ain’t arguing.”

“I want to go to college,” she said, getting lost in the fire. “Just reading, and writing. All day. With a big desk in a big room with a window. Or maybe a small desk in a small room. Either way. As long as I got a window.”

“Where do you reckon you’d go to college, Mary Beth?”

“Maybe California?”

Arthur nodded, took a drink. “I see. You’d do well, of course,” he said. “I’d like to see you there. It would be a fine picture.”

She smiled. “If you had gone,” she said, looking down into her glass, “would you be a artist? Maybe a photographer?”

“You know I have met a photographer,” said Arthur. He tossed a pebble into the fire. “By the name of Albert Mason.”

“Really?”

“Oh he’s around here, somewhere,” said Arthur. “You’d like him. He’s the bumbling sort.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you like me, and I saw you was talking to Kieran the other day. Showing him how to read and what-not. You take to the bumbling sort.” He smiled. “That’s a real nice thing you’re doing by the way, Mary Beth. Teaching Kieran to read.”

She shrugged. “I enjoy it. He’s a nice boy. Like Seany was, ain't as clever though.”

“He’s all right.”

“Tell me about Mr. Albert Mason,” she said, leaning toward him. “What does he photograph?”

“He’s been taking pictures of the wildlife in these parts,” said Arthur. “A funny sort of man. Always getting himself into trouble. I’ve helped him out in the past. Prevented him from being consumed by carnivores on more than one occasion, herded some horses. You know. He’s got terrible instincts. Though I suppose I envy him his naïveté.”

The fire popped a little. Mary Beth took a long stick and stoked it good. “I know what you mean,” she said. “All these women of St. Denis, so safe in their bustles. Sometimes I’d like to smack them, you know? That would be uncouth, but it’s true. A woman needs a little perspective I think or she’s gonna get bored and kill herself. That’s what Miss Grimshaw says, and I don’t always like Miss Grimshaw, but she tends to be right on these sorts of matters.”

Arthur laughed at this, under his breath. “You’re funny.”

“I don’t know,” she said, blushing. She tossed the stick and refilled their cups with liquor. “Hey, don’t you have one of them in your past, Arthur? One of them women?”

“Which women?”

“One of them women with no perspective. I mean no disrespect. But they seem to be the ones always finding husbands and good men to keep a watch on them.”

Arthur sighed.

“Mary, right?” she said. “What is it with Mary?”

“Mary is the name of a woman I once knew.”

“By which you mean, you nearly married her. Am I wrong?”

“You’re not wrong, Mary Beth.”

“What kept you?”

“She didn’t…appreciate the life,” he said, slowing down his thoughts. “No, I don’t blame her. She married a banker or something. An accountant, I don’t know. He died. Her father is a drunken moron. He'll be dead soon, too, I suspect. Looking back now, I don’t know what I was thinking. I think she’d have preferred me to be a kept sort of man.”

“You don’t want to be kept?”

“No,” he said, looking at her. The light was low and orange. Her face looked warm and freckled. “I do. But not like she wanted. Change is possible, Mary Beth, but I lost her. It’s for the dogs now. I ain’t the indoor sort anyway, I suppose.”

This amused her, but also seemed to sadden her in a way. She had her chin in her hands again, looking at him, sort of wide-eyed and young, but she wasn’t a spring chicken. She had seen the bad parts of the world same as he. She had that little blue satin book in her lap, though she had not touched or opened it since they sat down. The fire light made her freckles stand out real bright and big and this made her look so distinct from any girl he had ever really known. It was an odd comfort.

“Arthur,” she said. “You’re about the only man I’ve met who knows just how lost he is.”

He wanted to laugh at this. “Ain’t that the truth.” He took a drink.

“But you ain’t a fool,” she said.

“Oh?”

“No. You’re just Arthur. I look at men like Dutch—they’re fools. I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong. He’s been good to us. But sometimes it seems like…like he’s living in a different world? Like he don’t see the one I see. But you see the world I see. If that makes sense.”

“It does,” said Arthur. Now, he lit a smoke. He offered it to her, but she declined. He took a long drag and studied the burning tip. He didn’t feel like talking about Dutch. “What about you?” he said, blowing smoke, smirking. “You got any fellers in your past or present you care to share on?”

Mary Beth smiled and nudged him with her shoulder. It had broken the ice. “Nothing comes to mind,” she said. “You known me long enough, Arthur Morgan. You ever seen me going with any men in town?”

Arthur laughed. “Not that I can recall. Then again, I don’t see everything.”

“Trust me when I say you ain’t missing nothing.”

Arthur sighed. He tossed the cigarette into the fire. “Sometimes,” he said, picking up a reed from the earth, shredding it between his big fingertips, “—sometimes I think about heaven and hell.” He was getting dreamy now too, watching the pieces of the reed strip away until their was nothing. “How perhaps we are stuck in the inbetween. Like a purgatory. I have always felt pulled in two different directions. You ever felt that way?”

“Sure,” said Mary Beth, “but that can’t be all anyone thinks about. They’ll go nuts.”

He laughed. “You’re right.”

“These moments,” she said, looking up at the sky, looking at him. “The here and now. These are what really matter, Arthur. Being here, with you. I ain’t been so free in—in months. It ain’t worth it, getting riled into the past and the future, heaven and hell. If there is anything I have learned in my short and stupid existence here on earth it’s that life is too short. You know what I mean?”

He was looking at her now, and she was looking at him. He smiled because of truth and beauty and all that. Something he’d read in Keats a long time ago. It felt right. He felt a piece of hair that had fallen out from behind his ear some time ago, wisps in his face. Mary Beth reached very kindly to tuck it away for him behind his ear. She was smiling now, too.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You need a haircut, Arthur Morgan,” she said.

Arthur felt a little soft. He thought maybe it was the bourbon. “Probably,” he said.

But then.

There was a shifting, somewhere in the surrounding tree matter. Arthur had lived enough of his life hunted in the woods, his instincts were instantaneous. He sensed something, a movement in the dark. It was not the horses. They were on the other side of that tree over there. He must have looked alarmed because Mary Beth became nervous.

“What is it?” she said, straightening up, tightening the shawl around her shoulders. “Arthur?”

“Just a minute,” he said. He stood. He held out one hand like to shush her as he looked around. The other hand he laid upon his pistol, he drew it calmly but with intent. “Mary Beth, do not move.”

She nodded, very serious.

A figure came flying out of the bushes then, a big one. It was so fast. At first Arthur thought it was an animal of some sort, but it was not. It was a man, a real fucking gnasher but a man, and he went straight into Arthur’s gut, hard as bricks, and tackled him to the ground a million miles per hour, and Arthur’s back hit with a big, empty thud. He was being pummeled by the man’s fists before he knew what was happening, his vision going white, and then a gun went off somewhere real close, ringing into his ear like a fuckin explosion and suddenly half his body was on fire and his left sleeve was getting wet. He came into the moment when the man let up to catch his breath and made a grab for his pistol, but he managed only to knock it out of the assailant’s hand instead. He did not recall losing grip on it or how it had gotten there. His shoulder was killing, and it was all he could do to grab the man by the throat.

“Arthur!” said Mary Beth. Her voice pierced the thick evening sounds. She sounded frantic but the next thing he knew she had picked up the hot pan off the fire and thrown it’s boiling contents onto the man with the fists. The man cried out and she smacked him over the head with that pan, hard enough to uncatch his balance, and this paused his assault to the point Arthur was able to break free, throw the man to his back and sit on top of him. He pressed his hands around the man’s neck, in a kind of trance, choking him out till some pipe in the man’s throat collapsed beneath his grip—an unsettling sensation. The stranger died instantly.

It was quiet after that. Arthur tipped over, off the man and heaved and rolled onto his back and then his side and spat a bunch of blood into the dirt by the fire. His jaw felt loose, his mouth and eye were bloodied good, and he was fairly sure he’d been grazed by a bullet in his left upper arm.

“Sweet fucking Jesus!” said Mary Beth. She sounded relieved and exasperated all at once. She fell beside him and held his head between her palms and pushed the wet hair off his face and wiped some of the matted blood with her sleeve. He blinked a million times till he saw her clearly, then he shook out his head, looked around, and tried to realize finally what the fuck had just happened.

“My fucking lord,” he said, half-groaning, getting up slowly to his hands and knees. He stumbled, perhaps concussed, sitting back on his heels to catch his breath. Mary Beth was just crouched there looking at him. She still held his cheeks in her hands like she was trying to convince herself of his reality. “What the hell just happened?”

“Arthur, my god. Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

“You’re real bloody here, on your sleeve. I think you was shot.”

“Shot?” said Arthur, remembering now. The pistol, it had gone off erroneously. He looked down at his left sleeve to where Mary Beth was referring. It was, like she said, soaked through with blood, all the way through the coat. “Shit, you’re right.”

“Who the hell was that crazy man?” she said, busying herself now, removing his jacket so she could get a better look at the wound. “Arthur? An O’Driscoll?”

He was wincing and flinching in pain as she yanked him out of his jacket. He grunted, squeezed his eyes shut. Ever the gentleman, but this shit hurt. “Careful, my lady.”

“Oh shit,” she said, stopping in her tracks. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. Am I hurting you?”

“Only a little,” he said, smiling anyway. “But don’t worry about it.” He patted her on the shoulder, breathing good and heavy. “You done good, Mary Beth. Your quick thinking just saved my life.”

“Oh, please,” she said, very flustered. “That ain’t the point, Arthur.”

With his coat off finally, he could breathe again. She tossed it by the fire, which had half gone out from the scuffle. She tied off his wound with a huge strap of linen she’d had in her pack. Arthur took a moment to catch his breath. He closed his eyes. He concentrated. He was fine. This was a simple flesh wound, and it would heal normally. Once he felt able, he managed to look up, get to his feet barely, and stagger over to where the man lie dead now, his throat collapsed in the weeds. Arthur surveyed the ragged clothes and the ugly face and knew immediately that it was the third man from earlier that evening—the one who’d got away off that bridge. “Shit,” he said. He wondered for a minute if they were O’Driscolls. He didn’t know all of them, and they didn’t all know him. It was a big gang. “I knew I should’ve went after him.”

“Arthur, I don’t think we should stay here,” said Mary Beth. She was completely ignoring him, it seemed. She had begun to pack up their things. She had taken down the tent. He hadn’t even realized.

“Mary Beth, what are you doing?”

“We got to leave this camp right now.”

“Excuse me?”

“What if there’s more?” she said, wide-eyed and busy. It was a habit she had learned from Miss Grimshaw. “He might have gone and got his buddies. If they’re O’Driscolls, they’ll be back with big guns.”

“And if they ain’t? They could just be dead beat bandits, Mary Beth. Still plenty of them fools roaming the wild.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “You’re shot in the extremity, and I ain’t taking no chances.”

Arthur sighed, hooking his thumbs to his belt as he watched her scurrying. “Then what do you suggest we do?” he said. “It’s night, Mary Beth. I don’t fancy pushing forward at the moment.”

She was folding up his bedroll now, tucking it away to the back of his horse. “I reckon we ain’t far from Emerald Station,” she said. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” he said. “We ain’t far. Why?”

“I know a homestead up there,” she said, packing away his rifle, his shiny guns. “It’s big and clean, a farmer and his French wife. Karen told me about it. They got a bed and breakfast.”

“A bed and what?”

“A bed and breakfast. They take in travelers, Arthur. As long as the travelers got a good look about them. If you get my drift. We can go there, sleep indoors. Get you cleaned up proper.”

“You think I got a good look about me, Mary Beth?” he said, tipping his thumb to the corner of his mouth. He still tasted blood. “I’m half-beaten to Sunday.”

“Maybe not,” she said, dusting her hands off on her dress. She began to stamp out what was left of the fire. “But I do.”

He laughed at this, spat into the weeds. She was right. But then he winced, hard. The pain in his arm was a nasty bit of a graze. The bullet hadn’t stuck, but it still hurt. “Okay,” he said. “You got me there. What do you suggest?”

“I suggest you get on your horse,” she said, “and follow my lead for once.”

“What are you planning?” he said.

“Ain’t no fool’s errand, don’t worry,” she said, getting up into her saddle, scrubbing her dear Winston behind the ears. “I don’t take to fool’s errands, Arthur. Just a good, clean con.”

“My kind of business,” he said, getting on his horse. Slowly. “Take the lead, my lady.”

“Can you ride?” she said.

He gave her a look. “Of course I can ride. What exactly do you think I am, Mary Beth?”

“Well, you ain’t _kept_ that’s for sure,” she said, putting her horse into a trot. “Arthur.”

He laughed.

As they got back on the trail, somewhere close by you could hear the cackling of predators, he thought. The river streams whooshing by with the wind and under the stars. His arm hurt, and his face, but it really wasn’t so bad, he decided.


	5. Honestly by the Sea

They rode up to Emerald Station. It was a long, pretty country up there but weird. Arthur felt like the sky was watching him from this place. Once not too far to the east he had stumbled upon a house where an entire collection of people had sacrificed themselves to a crazy alien god by a name he could not remember. It was a haunted world, so seemed the earth—the farther he got east.

“Okay, so you just follow my lead,” she said. She trotted ahead of him a little. “Do you remember the story?”

“I’m Arthur O’Connor,” he said feeling a little woozy still from the fight. “You’re my wife, Mary Beth O’Connor, and we is…humble corn farmers, and we was robbed in Emerald Station.” The notion was hilarious. He laughed to himself. “What is your birthstone, fair madame, so that I might have it set in gold for you?”

“Hush,” said Mary Beth, smiling. “Plus, I already got a ring. Here.” She slowed down. They stopped just next to a dried creek. He could only see her by the light of the moon. There seemed to be rabbits everywhere. He also heard some goats as he watched her. She dug in her pocket and took out one of the bands she’d looted off the fellers on the bridge.

Arthur gave her a look. “You want me to wear a dead man’s wedding ring?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you sure about this?” he said. He took the ring, took off his gloves, put it on his left ring finger. It fit more or less. It was a little tight.

“Absolutely,” she said. “Just remember. We met at an auction in Valentine.”

“What sort of auction?” He lit a smoke, handed it to her. She smoked it casually, and he lit another for himself.

“Cattle,” she said. She was digging through her pockets yet. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I thought I had another. I snatched a silver ring with a yellow stone off a girl in St. Denis two weeks ago.”

“Hold on,” said Arthur, reaching into his satchel. “I think I got something.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He had a little velvet bag in there where he kept some smaller valuables. Inside, he found a nice emblem ring with a blue stone. He handed it to her. “There you go, Mrs. O’Connor.”

She was taken. “It’s nice!” she said, putting it on. “Where’d you get it.”

“I gave a woman a ride home the other day,” he said. “She paid me with her moderately-valued jewelry.”

“Well it’s just right,” she said. She finished her smoke, tossed it to the weeds. “You ready?”

“Sure,” said Arthur, adjusting his belt. “But where is this place? I don’t see a homestead nowhere, Mary Beth.”

“We’re not far,” she said. “We go up this creek a bit.”

“Well, lead the way, my lady.” He smirked.

She put her horse into a trot. “We’ll leave the horses out of sight,” she said.

“Yes ma’am.”

“And just remember, Arthur. You need to act…a little sheepish. Like a farmer.”

“Are farmer’s stereotypically sheepish? I mean I’ve met a few. They all seem to enjoy threatening my life with their poorly maintained guns.”

“The farmer I married is sheepish,” she said. “Or, only a little. If you don’t seem daft, nobody will believe you were stupid enough to be riding the trails at night, particularly in this part of New Hanover.”

“You wound me,” he said. They rode along side by side. He had that cigarette still pressed between his lips. “But I suppose if it means a damn bed…” To be frank, his shoulder hurt like fuck. He was tired.

“It does,” she said. “I promise.”

When they finally saw the house up on the horizon, Arthur recognized it as a place he had passed near to many times. He’d never taken notice of it before. They had some cows and he supposed it was just a small family farm. “This is it?” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. They dismounted their horses and left them hitched in a nearby thicket. Mary Beth gave Watson an apple, and Arthur gave Sarah a carrot. He went to reach for his shotgun.

“No guns!” said Mary Beth. “No artillery, Arthur. You’re a simpleton farmer!”

“Gimme a goddam break,” said Arthur. “You think I’m gonna walk up to that house over there, unarmed, and ask a complete stranger to take me in for the night?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’m keeping my pistol and my revolver. Right here.” He patted his belt. “They’re well-hid under my coat, and I will leave them there as long as nobody tries to kill us. And anyway, you can’t tell me no farmer don’t carry guns in and around Emerald Station.”

She sighed. “Fine,” she said. “Just…follow my lead.”

“I already said I would.”

They went up the lawn. It looked blue in the moonlight. The cows nearby were making their moaning sounds, and the property was well-groomed. When they got up close, Arthur noticed a little wooden sign pegged to the door.  _Winterson Bed and Breakfast,_ it said.  _Vacancies._

“That’s a charming sign,” said Arthur.

“Shh,” said Mary Beth.

She knocked.

It took a little time.

“Maybe they ain't home.”

“ _Shh._ ”

“Sorry.”

She knocked once more.

At this, they heard a near shuffling on the other side of the door. A man’s voice came through. “Who is it?”

“It’s—we’s distressed travelers!” said Mary Beth. Arthur watched her tighten her shawl, getting into character. He stood back off the porch, on the lawn and waited, trying not to smirk too much. “We saw your sign for vacancies.”

There was a hesitation. Arthur looked around. He thought he heard hounds somewhere, dogs. Big ones. After a moment, they heard three locks clicking on the back of the door, and the man poked outside. He looked to be about fifty years old or so, kind of egg-headed but silver, wearing a plaid collared shirt, brown simple pants and suspenders. He had a large double-barreled shotgun in his hand, but he did not point it at Mary Beth or Arthur. He held it down at his side. When he saw Mary Beth, he immediately softened his disposition. “What is the matter, miss?” He seemed concerned, in fact. He glanced to Arthur and then back to her again. “You said you was distressed?”

“It’s my husband!” she said, now in full swing with her feigned histrionics. “He was mugged and beaten in Emerald Station. They took our wagon! Full of corn!”

Arthur tried desperately to keep a straight face. He stood tall, with his thumbs looped into his belt.

The man looked up. He scanned Arthur, surveyed him and his entire disposition with one long look.

Arthur waved, sheepishly.

“Corn?” said the man.

Arthur sighed. He let his head sag a little. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Corn.”

“I don’t understand,” said the man.

“We is just…simple corn farmers,” said Arthur. “It was her father owned the farm, not mine. We was delivering a shipment of corn to Valentine.”

“You might’ve left earlier in the day,” said the man, almost in a scolding fashion.

Arthur nodded. “Yes, sir. The crop was wet from storms last week, and we hadn’t enough time. It was to be there by morning. Feed corn. For the cattle.”

The man thought on this. He was staring at Arthur. Then, he looked back at Mary Beth. “You’d like a room?” he said. “Just one night?”

“Yes,” she said, frantic. “Just one night. And we’ll pay! I’ve got some money, leftover. They didn’t think to rob me. Gentlemen bandits I suppose.”

This made the old man chuckle. He was a genial type. “All right,” he said. “Well don’t concern yourself with that now, Miss—er, Mrs.”

“ _Mrs._ , that’s right,” said Mary Beth. “Mrs. O’Connor. First name, Mary Beth.”

“Nice to meet you,” the man said. He looked back at Arthur. Every time he did, Arthur thought his face changed a little. Like he would look at Mary Beth and see an innocent pearl and then look at him and see a burned leather boot up to zero good.

“My husband’s name is Arthur,” she said. “Arthur O’Connor.”

Arthur waved again.

“He don’t talk much but for when he’s spoken to,” said Mary Beth. “He’s not simple. He’s whip smart. Just sheepish. If you catch my drift.”

The man was watching Mary Beth now, nodding. Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Yes, well. All right. We’ve got vacancies.” He turned his head back then to hollar into the house. “Lizette! Come on down here. We got guests.”

Arthur approached now, slowly, but if he was to seem a proper husband he needed to stand by Mary Beth’s side. Once he was on the porch, he lit into the man with his stare and held out his right hand for a shake. “Thank you,” he said. “Truly. From the bottom of our hearts.”

“You’re welcome,” said the man. He shook Arthur’s hand. He seemed only slightly suspicious. He did, however, trust Mary Beth. “You may call me Lawrence.”

“Lawrence,” said Arthur. “Lawrence Winterson. Of the Winterson Bed and Breakfast in Emerald Station.”

“That’s me.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” said Arthur. He smiled. The handshake fell away, and before long, Arthur and Mary Beth were standing in the small foyer of the farm house. It was simple inside but decorous in subtle ways, like the fabrics on the chairs were very nice, and the room smelled of clean linens. Then when Mrs. Winterson appeared, they realized why. She was incredibly French and wore a satin robe and slippers that suggested a higher station than perhaps Mr. Winterson deserved.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” said Mrs. Winterson. She curtsied. She was very short, maybe about five feet and one inch, about as big as a matchstick. “I am Lizette. You may call me Liz.” She had a very thick French accent, but you could catch her meaing.

“Liz,” said Mary Beth. “I’m Mary Beth, and this is my husband Arthur. It is nice to meet you.”

Lizette nodded and curtsied again and took Mary Beth by the elbow without another word. She led her into the kitchen like a tiny hostess, and Mary Beth looked back at Arthur in a fair bit of confusion but he just shrugged and saluted her and made a face like,  _We did it, cowgirl._

The front door was closed behind him now. Once the women were gone, Lawrence Winterson hung up his shotgun at the door and complimented Arthur’s pistol.

“A nice piece,” he said. “Looks custom.”

Arthur smiled. “A gift from Mary Beth’s father.”

“A wedding gift?” said Lawrence.

“No, sir,” he said, scratching at his chin. “Just a gift. We get on well.”

“Very good.”

Lawrence seemed concerned then, once more. He was looking close at Arthur’s face and then the bloodied sleeve of his coat. “Your wife said you was beaten. Is that right?” He had a soft voice. He seemed like a medical doctor, or a reverend who did not drink his weight in whiskey per day.

“Yes, sir,” said Arthur, coming into awareness. It did hurt. This part was not a con. “Feller hit me, several times. Suckerpunched me and got ahold of my gun and shot me, too.”

“How bad is the wound?”

“Not bad,” said Arthur. “Just a graze. But it hurts like hell.”

“I imagine,” said Lawrence. He smiled.

There was a moment in which Arthur was not sure if he was supposed to speak. So he cleared his throat, seeming sheepish, only this time it was by accident. “I—pardon me. But you seem like a veteran of the war. You got a trophied way about you.”

“Trophied?”

“Like you’ve saved lives. Seen some bad things.”

Lawrence laughed to himself. “Well, I certainly tried. To save lives, that is. And I did see some…bad things. I was just a medic though. Maybe sixteen when I joined the Union Army?”

“No shit.”

“Indeed,” said the man. He took a long look at Arthur’s bloodied coat. “I was raised out of Illinois. Mostly stuck to the tents. Never really saw no battle, but for the aftermath.”

“Illinois?” said Arthur. “What a pitifully long way away that is. You mean Chicago?”

“Not quite,” said Lawrence. “Rockford. It’s a ways west of Chicago. Cows, mostly. Flat lands like you’ve never seen.”

“Oh I’ve seen flat country,” said Arthur. “Just not in Illinois.”

Lawrence lead Arthur into a side room then, without any further ado. It was like, a sewing room. There was a sewing machine with a pedal and also a loom for spinning cotton, pretty paintings of landscapes and things on the wall. “You gonna make me a dress?” said Arthur.

Lawrence smiled, very mild-mannered. “No. I’ll take a look at your wound, though, if you’ll let me. Mr. O’Connor.”

Arthur was a little taken aback. He did not expect any sort of high treatment, not in this way. “Really?” he said.

“Sure.”

Arthur looked around. He felt welcome here. “Well, thank you,” he said. “That’s very kind of you, Dr. Winterson.”

“It is not a problem, Mr. O’Connor.”

“Just—Arthur will do,” said Arthur, looking around. He particularly liked this one painting—of sunflowers. “Mr. O’Connor is my father-in-law.”

Lawrence laughed. “Very well,” he said. He gestured then to a long, blue wooden table at the center of the room. “In that case, you may call me Lawrence. Take a seat, Arthur.”

Lawrence was a real hard worker and very diligent. He cleaned Arthur’s wound with a stinging solution and insisted Arthur let him put in a couple stitches.

“You think it needs stitches?” said Arthur.

“Not necessarily,” said Lawrence. He had put on a little pair of round specs. “But it’ll heal faster with stitches, and stay clean. If you’re going to be out and about a while longer, I’d recommend stitches.”

“Fine,” said Arthur, bucking up. He didn’t like needles particularly.

Lawrence produced a small medical kit from a drawer beneath the table. He then called for his wife in French. Arthur found it fascinating that the man spoke French. She appeared like a pretty little mouse in the doorway. “Yes?”

“ _Apportez-moi une bouteille de…_ ” He looked at Arthur, gave him a long, careful look. Then he said, “ _Whisky._ ”

“ _Whisky?_ ”

“ _Oui. Le cow-boy_   _n’aime pas les aiguilles_.”

The wife smiled at Arthur in a loving fashion.

Arthur sighed. “Whatever he said, it’s probably true.”

“ _S'il vous plaît,_ ” said Lawrence.

“ _Je comprends,_ ” she said, and then she went away.

“What did you say to her?” said Arthur. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I told her that you did not like needles, and I asked her to bring us a bottle of whiskey.”

Arthur gave him a look. “How the hell did you know I don’t like needles?”

“I read minds,” said Lawrence, and he smirked, glancing over the rim of his little round specs.

He was meticulous as he readied his tools. He seemed a man of careful thinking in all he did. “So'd you learn all this from the army?” said Arthur.

“I studied under my father for a time,” Lawrence said. “He was a trained doctor, used to travel up to Wisconsin, treat ex-slaves who were sick or wounded.”

“Why Wisconsin?” said Arthur.

“There were many paths to Canada through the territory up there,” said Lawrence. “The slaves moved in secret to their salvation.”

“That’s the underground railroad,” said Arthur. “Yeah, I heard of it, but I ain’t never seen it.”

“Thank your lucky stars for that,” said Lawrence.

Arthur sighed.

In a moment, Mary Beth appeared. She had a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and looked concerned. “Arthur, are you okay?” she said. She set the bottle of whiskey on the table and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he said. He patted her hand with his. “I just—the man’s gonna stitch me up.”

She made a kind of distressed face. “Yikes.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me.”

“You want me to stay?”

“No,” said Arthur. “You get back to—” He glanced to the door, saw Lizette standing there with a bowl and a wooden mixing spoon, looking patient, “—whatever it is you were doing.”

“All right,” said Mary Beth. She gave his hand a quick squeeze, and then she left the room and shut the door behind her. She was such a little comfort, thought Arthur. Like a bird on his shoulder, light and tender and sweet, and then she’d flit away on a dime.

When she was gone, Lawrence tugged the cork off the bourbon with his teeth. He poured himself about a capful. For Arthur, he poured two fingers in a cup. Arthur obliged him happily, raised his glass, threw the whole thing back in a single swallow. It burned on the way down in a good way. He felt Lawrence dabbing a little of the whiskey to the wound. It stung. He shook out his head. He felt the heavy rush into his ears and eyes, filling his skull. By the time he was done acclimating to the booze, Lawrence had already begun with the stitches. He already had the needle in Arthur’s arm. Arthur closed his eyes and thought about this night being over.

“That’s a good woman you got there,” said Lawrence.

Arthur peaked out at him, saw he had a piece of thread in his mouth, concentrating very hard. Arthur felt a stinging, a tug in his skin. He closed his eyes again. “Yes, sir.”

“How’d the two of you meet?”

“Cattle auction,” said Arthur. “Over in Valentine.”

“I met my wife in St. Denis.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” said Lawrence.

“She’s French, obviously. She been a long time in St. Denis?”

“Since her childhood, yes,” said Lawrence.

Arthur opened his eyes now. The liquor had washed into him and made him a little warm. It wasn’t enough to alter him in any way. Just enough to dull the pain in the slightest. “We been a few times, to St. Denis. It ain’t for us.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Lawrence, smiling. “No offense. It’s just that you and Mrs. O’Connor seem like salt of the earth folk. I personally relate.”

“I take that as a compliment,” said Arthur.

“As you should,” said Lawrence.

He continued to work. Arthur went in and out of that unnatural and tugging sensation. Lawrence seemed to be taking his time, which might seem like a nuisance, but it was a good thing. Nobody wants a doc who rushes through his practice. Talking made it feel better. “So you’re from Illinois,” said Arthur. “What brought you down to Lemoyne?”

“It was after the war,” said Lawrence. “I didn’t much want to go home. It didn’t feel right.”

“I can commiserate with that.”

“I was still young and I wanted to see the world.  _They got riverboats in St. Denis,_ everyone told me—the boys I mean, when we was all discharged.  _You could go to Africa. Go to Tahiti!_ ”

Arthur sighed.

“Anyway,” said the man, sort of laughing at this younger, sillier version of himself, “My wife’s father ran the books for a butcher shop in town. She was born in France, like I said. A city by the name of Nice.”

“You ever been back?” said Arthur. “To France, I mean.” 

“No”, said the man. “I’ve no personal interest. My wife doesn’t fancy going back either. She says it’s only sad memories for her there. Her mother died when she was a girl.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. But as you can see, we’re doing just fine. We got married in the church in Rhodes. She liked it better in Rhodes. The people are somewhat dreadful, but the atmosphere is kind.”

Arthur laughed, and he felt Lawrence dabbing more of the alcohol onto his sewn-up wound. He could tell the man was almost finished. He had a thought then, small but he was warm still from the whiskey and happily inside their conversation. He liked Lawrence. He wanted to know more. “Do you the two of you, uh, have any children?”

“No,” said the man, matter of fact.

“I did not mean to pry.”

“It’s all right,” said Lawrence. “We tried for many years, but it wouldn’t take. At first, it was a disappointment, of course, but we are content now. We have our farm, our bed and breakfast. My wife likes taking travelers. She says it keeps her alert. She is a splendid hostess.”

“I don’t doubt that,” said Arthur. “But, and if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Ask away.”

“You ever find yourselves in a bad situation?” he said, bold now. He looked down at his arm—all red and the wound pulled together and closed with the thread. He looked away. Stitches always make it look worse than it is for a while. “I only mean—it’s strange parts around here. I don’t like it myself. You must get some characters coming through. Could be dangerous.”

“No,” said Lawrence. “We’ve got a pack of hounds on sight. You may have heard them when you was riding in. And I know a bad character when I see him.”

Arthur watched now, as Lawrence finished with the stitches, tied them off in a very neat little fashion, trimmed the excess thread and placed his hands on the table.

“I see,” Arthur said. The room was very quiet. He tried straining to hear the sounds of the women in the kitchen, but he couldn’t hear a damn thing.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Lawrence, removing his specs. He rubbed them clean with a little cotton handkerchief.

“Right. Because you read minds.”

“You think you’re one of them,” said Lawrence. He dropped his specs in his front pocket, then looked up at Arthur, very serious all of a sudden.

“I beg your pardon?” said Arthur.

“The bad characters, you think you’re one of them,” said Lawrence. “I see your holsters. Your scars. I hear it in your voice. You live hard. I know men who’ve come through, outlaws. They got the same disposition.”

“Sir, I don’t know—”

“This ain’t about your code, son,” said the man, getting up to dip his hands in the basin on the other side of the room. He washed and dried them meticulously. “I don’t care about laws. Half of them are made to protect criminals worse than any murderer on the gallows at Valentine. But I seen it in your eyes, Mr. O’Connor. You’re a good man.” He turned around, looked right at Arthur. “I bet you save people.”

Arthur laughed at this. It was a surprise. He felt a little exposed there. “Sometimes,” he said. “Though mostly from themselves. Or wild animals I suppose.”

“And your wife—she is your wife?” said Lawrence.

Arthur nodded, sticking to Mary Beth’s plan. “Yes.”

“She accepts you, and that is a rarity, I suppose.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Arthur. He wasn’t even kidding this time.

“Well,” said Lawrence, going to a tall armoire by the window. “Regardless of your disposition, she seems a nice girl. No scars.” From the armoire he produced a clean white shirt. He handed it to Arthur.

“Thank you,” said Arthur. He put it on, gingerly. His arm was quite sore. “Though with Mary Beth—her scars may not be on the surface, but they’re there. She sure is pretty, but that’s just her design. She hasn’t lived an easy life, sir. I mean no disrespect.”

“None taken,” said Lawrence. “And I don’t doubt that. I just—I wanted you to know. I know you isn’t corn farmers, Mr. O’Connor. I know a corn farmer and no corn farmer carries around artillery like that.”

Arthur gave him a look, rolling up his sleeves. He got up from the table. “Perhaps I am a breed of corn farmer you ain’t never met.”

Lawrence smiled, straighteneing up and heading for the door. “Perhaps.” He placed his hand on the doorknob, opened it halfway, but then stopped. “I would ask though. Regardless, Mr. O’Connor. This is a bullet wound, and your face is—well it’s not too bad, but it’s a shade under pulverized. How did you escape your attacker?”

“Mary Beth,” said Arthur. “She hit him over the head with a hot frying pan. We was camping a few miles out when he took us by surprise.”

The man laughed at this. He was calm and easy to be around, but not weak. He opened the door all the way and allowed Arthur to go first. “The unflinching practicality of women,” he said. “What would we do without it?”

Arthur shook his head because he did not rightly know. “Die, I reckon,” he said.

“Ain’t it so.”

They went to the kitchen. The women had prepared a small dessert of apples, cream, and sweet bread. Mary Beth looked tired but happy. They sat around the small table, all four of them, and partook in their late night snack. Lizette told a story about a man she’d met in town, and how he had eleven fingers.

“Eleven?” said Arthur. “Now that must have been a sight to see.”

Lizette blushed. "It was," she said, as if she were embarrassed by her accent. 

Mary Beth looked at Arthur, kind of concerned. She took a bite of her apples. “You okay, Arthur? How’s your arm?”

“Just fine,” said Arthur, looking at Lawrence who was looking at Lizette who was looking at her bread. “Mr. Winterson here fixed me up just fine.”

In a little bit, Lizette invited Mary Beth to help her make up the bed in her and Arthur's room for the night. Arthur had one more slug of whiskey with Lawrence in the parlor who showed him his old Union kepi.

Arthur held it in his hand. It seemed to weigh a lot, but that was just an illusion. It was quite warn. “Wow,” he said.

“Was you born yet when the war broke out, son?” said Lawrence.

Arthur admired the fabric, pressed his thumb along the weathered seam of the brim. “Right during,” said Arthur. “1863.”

“Kind of conflicted timing.”

“Yup,” said Arthur, handing him back the kepi, “and that conflict of timing has stuck with me all my life.” He smiled, said thank you. He looked at his knuckles which were very scarred.

Mary Beth was already in their bedroom when he got there. It was clean, with a wash basin and an armoire full of crisp linens. Against the opposite wall beside a square window was the bed, large and brass and very white. Mary Beth was already in the bed, on the side nearest the window, wearing a long-sleeved nightgown, obviously given to her by the lady of the house. She had her legs tucked beneath the covers and was reading from her book.

“Hi,” she said when he came in. She was small and had her hair down around her shoulders, the curls all but brushed out.

He stood awkwardly by the door, then closed it quietly behind him. He smiled, looked around, continued to stand as if he did not know quite what to do.

“What are you standing there for?” she said. “You look lost.”

He sighed, uncomfortable. His chivalry was showing, and he didn’t know quite if that was a good or bad thing. “It’s just one bed, Miss Gaskill.”

“So?” she said. She tugged the covers down. “It’s big, plenty of room for the two of us.”

“Mary Beth—”

“Oh, please,” she said. “You ain’t an idiot, Arthur. Don’t act like one.”

He sighed and gave her a look. Then he came over the bed and measured its softness with the palm of his hand. He still felt strange, but her humor had a way of undoing him. “I was only trying to be a gentleman.”

“Well, message received,” said Mary Beth, “but if you don’t think I trust you by now, Arthur Morgan, you got a long way to go. And don’t call me Miss Gaskill. You ain’t Dutch.”

He smiled at this, though mostly to himself. “That is true,” he said. He sat down. The bed creaked beneath his weight. Mary Beth had been right. The bed was plenty big, but he felt big as well beside her. He had not lain in bed beside a woman in some years, not in any capacity, but he tried not to fixate too much on that now. Instead he leaned against a pillow, set against the big brass bars of the bed frame. He reached into his back pocket and took out his journal. He opened it and and held the pencil and gave Mary Beth a little glance, and then he went right back to a sketch he had started the day before.

They sat quietly for a while. All you could hear were the noises from outside, animals and bugs, and then each other’s breathing. Mary Beth read while he sketched. At some point, however, she seemed to get bored and asked him what he was drawing.

“It’s—well it’s an old, dead town,” he said, studying his lines. “I stumbled upon it not far from Shady Belle. It’s called Pleasance.”

“Pleasance?” said Mary Beth. “It don’t look very pleasant.”

“It ain’t,” said Arthur. “Something bad happened there. Maybe people got sick? Weird stuff written on the barn door. I didn’t look inside. The whole thing gave me a bad feeling.”

“Why are you drawing it?” said Mary Beth.

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “Maybe because, despite all that, it was sort of...beautiful.”

He looked at her. She smiled at him. “You’re a sad poet, Arthur Morgan.”

“I ain’t no poet,” he said, laughing a little. “I assure you that.”

She was looking at the drawing. She traced her finger over the paper like she wanted to touch the pencil work. Then she sighed and said, “it’s lovely.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Well, I’m off to sleep,” she said. “That French woman is adorable but exhausting. She about told me her whole life story while we was doing the apples.”

“Oh yeah? She didn’t seem to talk much while we was eating.”

“Yeah, well,” said Mary Beth, dreamy as usual. “Perhaps she was all out of breath by the time you boys got there.”

Arthur found this amusing. “That’s funny.”

“I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.”

She turned down the light in the oil lamp on her bedside table. She laid her curly head down on the white pillow.

“Do you mind if I leave my light on a little longer?” said Arthur, feeling, once again, sheepish beside her. “I’m close to finished, I swear.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” she said, smiling. “Good night, Arthur.”

“Goodnight, Mary Beth,” he said.

 

That night, while they were sleeping, Mary Beth had a dream about pumpkins. It was simple. She was a pumpkin farmer. She stood in a field with mud up to her knees. She held a rake. She looked around, but she didn’t see nobody else in the field with her. It was just orange pumpkins for miles in all directions. The air was cold. The sky was a weird grayish green with lots of stars. They swam around like little fish. At first she could hear only the wind, but then the world shook, and she thought she sensed a deep distress in the valley beyond, which she could neither see nor hear. She could only feel it there, breathing, and she looked around, but it was hopeless.

When she woke up, she saw Arthur. He was sitting with his feet on the floor and his back to her. He had his head in his hands. He was shaking his head over and over again. His breathing was ragged.

She reached for him, on an instinct. She put her hand softly on his shoulder. “Arthur, what’s wrong?”

“Go back to sleep, Eliza,” he said. He turned around. When he looked at her, his face changed. There was a big light from the moon coming in through the curtains of the square window. It lit on him, and she thought he looked rightly scared for a moment. Like he didn’t know where he was. But then he seemed to come out of it, like he was only just now awake, and he blinked and shook out his head a little and blinked again and looked at her closely. “Mary Beth?” he said, seeming relieved.

She realized then he had been having a dream. Lots of the men had them around camp. They would wake up mumbling. Once she heard Kieran. He woke up screaming. “Yes,” she said, smiling in her soft way. “It's just me. You were dreaming.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice all gravel. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, rubbed hard. “I didn’t mean to wake you—I’m sorry, Mary Beth.”

She put her palm on his cheek to comfort him, took his hand away from his eye. She didn’t want him rubbing it so hard like that. “You didn’t wake me,” she said. “You just had a dream. I was already awake.”

He nodded, reassured it seemed, though she couldn’t tell if he really remembered what had happened. He kind of floated like he was waiting for something, searching her, but then he exhaled and squeezed his eyes shut. He lowered himself back to the pillow. She smoothed a bit of hair off his forehead, felt his temperature with the back of her hand. It was fine, it was cool. She listened to him breathe a little until he evened out. Very soon, he drifted.

The whole thing had torn her out of her element. Him like that, afraid. He always seemed so big and strong and far away. Arthur. But it wasn’t true. He was right here, with her, shucked and so close with his sadness and sweetness and his softness showing, asleep. She’d always known it was there. Men all have their fears. She felt an enormous protectiveness over him in this moment like nothing she had ever felt before.

It was strange pretending to be a wife, thought Mary Beth as she settled back into her pillow. Her mind was going now, and she couldn’t shut it up. Running with Dutch and the boys, doing their laundry and keeping them fed and going into the towns to pickpocket her weight in silver—she’d never much had the inkling on what it would be to get married, live in a house, et cetera. But now, her dreamy brain filled with all these strange possibilities. To be a wife? Like the little French woman. Lizette. Her and her silvery, wise husband who had fought in the war between the states. Lizette was kindly and good and they had many books on their bookshelves, which made the rooms all feel so warm.

She thought, too, as he lie there sleeping, about being Arthur’s wife. Like what she was pretending to be. It wasn’t hard. But he was so very hidden inside himself and held his posture so far from the rest of the men. He did not seem to crave fitting in among them, and sometimes it seemed he could not allow himself the space of satisfaction for his own needs. He did not seem the sort of man to count on luxuries or petty desires, and this made him different. He paced, smoked. He did not drink too often that she saw, only sometimes and in modest quantities. He mostly sat alone when he sat at all, and his hands were always moving, always fidgeting or something. He’d bite his nails. His mind seemed to only calm when he was riding his horse or sketching in that journal. Otherwise, she swore she could almost hear it. Like bees buzzing and trains roaring. His brain was filled with sadness and noise and private anxieties, and it was hard to get it quiet. But she felt she had seen that quiet more than most. She felt like together they could just be, and this was new for both of them and she supposed that now it was why she wanted to come on this trip with him in the first place.

She could write and he could draw pictures for her stories, thought Mary Beth. They could live in a house they built themselves in California. He could tame horses and breed them and sell them to the dandies in town and she could sell her stories and together they could live honestly by the law. Honestly by the sea.

He made her feel safe and sound when they were out in the wilderness. He did not fear men or beasts. She wanted to keep him safe in return, and she realized now she always had. She was aware that she had a predilection toward men, and she had always been good at dealing with them and their tantrums. She knew exactly how pretty she was, and how charming and kind and soft, and how that appealed to hard men like Arthur, but this was different. Arthur wasn’t typical. Maybe he did not need protecting from much in his environment but there was plenty out to get him lurking within his own heart. His past, which she did not know much about. She didn’t think he had anybody else to do this for him either, and looking at him now, obviously as he’d had some sort of nightmare that woke him up, it made her angry. Where was Dutch, Arthur’s supposed _father_? Out reading his sophomoric philosophies to the women in camp, but they were broad sweeping thought Mary Beth and they didn’t much impress her. She listened because she knew it made him happy, and for a long time she sort of marked that as her job. She liked to make people happy, and keeping the men calm, that was a gift. They were all charmed by her sweetness, her sobered and kind disposition. She didn’t sleep with them, and that made her seem all the more nurturing. Held at a distance, like some sort of goddess. But that was just the way it was. Dutch was a bastard, she thought now. He did not seem to hold Arthur dear in the ways Arthur seemed to hope he would, and right now, right here, it pissed her off. She had used to count on Dutch as the man who had saved her soul but now she was not so sure. She didn’t like what she saw growing inside him.

Only Hosea seemed to have Arthur’s heart in mind. Charles, too. He and Arthur were very good friends. She liked it when the men were good to each other. When they talked by the fire in quiet tones she could not quite hear. Sometimes when Arthur would be riding into camp all alone after being gone on his lonesome business for several days, and he didn’t think anybody was watching, and he looked so tired but filled with a practical relief at being back in a place he understood, he would brush his pretty filly, Sarah, and he would feed her an apple or a peppermint candy. He would speak gentle words to Sarah in a whisper that no one could hear but the two of them. It was a magic thing, thought Mary Beth, like—people, he did not always care to understand, but animals, those he could figure. It was like he was very pure this way, a lone knight of his round table.

Now, she knew it was dumb and too romantic, the idea. Miss Grimshaw would have about smacked these hearts and flowers right out her girlish brain. But it was Arthur Morgan. He was easy to stand beside and his voice and the sounds of his spurs in the camp, they comforted her. She preferred it when he was there. He was tall and handsome and kind and fierce. He always said hello to the girls. He did not hold them anywhere other than right there in his midst, as equals. He was older though and she thought maybe he looked upon her like a sister sometimes, the way they talked. But sometimes it didn’t seem that way at all. Like when they danced, at Sean’s party. When he would come to her, talk to her about his fears and his hidden sadness. No, she did not feel significantly young when they were together. Sometimes she felt the wiser, the calmer one even. Maybe in sensibility he had some deep, dark knowledge of life’s greater meaning she did not yet have access to, but that was all. She wasn’t that young. She was almost twenty-three years old. She may have had her girlish heart full of pretty stories, but twenty-three is not a girl no more.

She didn’t know about Eliza though. She wondered what it could mean.


	6. A Couple Busted Umbrellas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _cw: distant reference toward sexual violence_

The dream he’d had at the Winterson's B&B was not a good one. You know, there is this abandoned homestead in Scarlet Meadows? Not far from Rhodes, and outside that homestead there are two little crosses set up on either side of a big, pretty tree. It is familiar. Arthur stumbled upon it once while out hunting whitetail for camp, not too long ago, and in doing so, he remembered all the bad things that had ever happened to him. The little crosses and all of their lonely passion dredged up a layer of guilt from so deep inside that his vision went white and he nearly stumbled into his horse. The guilt was covered in barbed wire. It hurt a lot to swallow it back down again, but he did it anyway and then he went back to camp with a dead deer for Pierson, and it was twilight and Dutch sat, consumed in his own neurosis with his head in his hands. Nobody else really knew about Eliza except for Dutch, Hosea, John, and Abigail. Arthur went to his bed that night and he went right to sleep, very early.

Arthur didn’t dream of the two little crosses that first night with Mary Beth. He didn’t even dream of Eliza. He only dreamed of the polar bear—climbing again out of that polar bear skin and seeing the world burnt around him and wondering where it was everyone had gone to, everyone he ever cared for. It woke him up, and when he woke up, he sat up, and the barbed wire had unfurled and ensconced him in its horrible pain so deep he got to thinking it was happiness. What else could be so all-consuming without causing death? He rightly had not known before. But it wasn’t Mary this time—nagging him, this petty pain just below the surface. No. It was much too deep for that. He felt twenty-five again, in that moment, sleeping in a soft bed next to his pregnant girlfriend who he had made that way. How he loved her. Like he had never loved anything—no man or woman or child could come close to the desire he had to keep her safe. She was the love that came first, that preceded all. And when Mary Beth touched his shoulder that night, he was not awake yet. He was still in the dream, next to Eliza, in a farmhouse in Butte, Montana. Where the buffalo roam, he thought. And when he woke up he was crushed at all that had come to pass. He felt so old. But also, all at once, he was relieved. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact sensation. It was of the most conflicting he had ever felt in his life.

Now he and Mary Beth had started continuing their way north again, eventually headed toward O’Creagh’s Run. It was so pretty here. So damn pretty, thought Arthur, especially once you got up in the Grizzlies a little, and these orange flowers grew everywhere, poppies or something, Arthur wasn’t quite sure. Ram and Whitetail all over the place, hopping and stumbling and drinking from the ravines. Arthur knew now that, as they left Emerald Station, they would soon be leaving civilization as they knew it and entering into a kind of dark territory. They still had time. Ambarino was a good, clean place, still wild terrain populated mostly by animals, hunters, fishermen. But once they got further east, it was all ghosts and people that looked like ghosts, and fog and strangers in the windows of rotten shacks way high on the cliffs. At times he became bothered with anxiety and regret at having brought Mary Beth on this trip, as he thought intensely about the dangers that could await them in the northern stretches of New Hanover. But it was too late now, and he didn’t rightly know anything, and for all of his certainties, it was just as dangerous, her sleeping alone at Shady Belle in the southern swamps of Lemoyne, as it was her riding with him in the deadzone of all that lie north of Annesburg. He supposed he could have taken her to Strawberry. To West Elizabeth. Real good hunting out there. But it was further west than he was willing to go, and the closer he got to Blackwater the faster the true dangers began to appear.

He knew it would be fine. He would _make_ it fine. And for now, it was Ambarino, still just mountain prettiness and fields of wild flowers, and he knew that she would like it up here. He just knew. It all sort of looked like her, felt like her—soft and good but with unexpected outcroppings and steep drops and you had to keep a watch on your footing lest you loose your step. Plunge off a cliff. As they rode north, away from the Winterson’s comfortable B&B she was quiet for a time and wistful, like she was caught in a dream. He did not disturb her. He had not meant to worry her that night before. He had bad dreams all the time—it was nothing new. Nothing to do with Mary Beth. 

In any case, the memory was stoked now. It was a creeping heat. He could feel it, and he didn't fully know why. Though he could guess, of course. Other times he might try and dull it out of himself with whiskey, but not today. He needed to be sharp. He needed to be fully awake and aware because even if it was pretty country there were a lot of dangers in the Grizzlies and there was nothing that was going to prevent him from protecting the two of them, protecting her.

So there he rode, right on the sharp knife’s edge of his worst nightmares, and yet fully in the present on the trail to Ambarino. They rode at a trot mostly. Mary Beth was contemplative and sometimes, she would slow down to scribble something in that book of hers and then she’d put it away into her dress folds again. He would smoke and light her a cigarette, hand it across to her as they rode on their horses, and she would take it and smile and thank him for his chivalry. These little pieces of their time together would tug the strings inside his heart. His affection for her was growing and this, too, like everything else in his conflicted mind made him homesick, and worried. She was a little like Eliza. She was young and had long, wavy hair that curled in the humidity, and she was kind and dutiful. They both liked to read. But unlike Eliza, Mary Beth was sure of herself. She had all this confidence, and until now, he’d never really known it. He’d always sort of seen her as the wildflower in the camp. Pretty, softer than the other girls, but incredibly stoic. It was hard to see through her. He felt, in some ways, transparent by her side.

Arthur Morgan was a callused man but he had never once closed his heart to love. He was an optimist. He wanted to believe things would be okay. It was not this part of him that made him so difficult to crack.

 

They made camp near a lagoon called Moonstone Pond. Arthur took Mary Beth fishing. She was not experienced with a fishing rod and desired a lot of guidance. He showed her how to hold it, how to cast, watched her closely. She regarded the water with a close eye. She was very eager to learn, got a single bite, but it was kind of a big feller and she couldn’t manage. She broke the line and stamped her foot with comical indignation.

"Dammit," she said. "I’m a terrible fisherwoman."

"Nah, you’re just fine," said Arthur. "You know how many lines I break daily? And I’ve been fishing for...years. You’ll get it. Want to try again?"

She looked at the fishing pole then handed it back to him. "I’m too hungry to try again," she said, smiling. "I’d like to watch you."

He had a toothpick between his teeth, took it out of his mouth, flicked it to the weeds. It was chilly up in these parts and she had put on her riding gloves. "I’ll do my best not to disappoint you."

"You couldn’t disappoint me, Arthur Morgan."

This amused him. He fixed up his hook with a nice bait worm, cast it into the water. They stood quietly for a while. Mary Beth dropped to a crouch to look at her reflection. She tapped its surface and made little ripples in the water. The sun was getting lower, like a hot burn on the horizon, just past the trees.

Arthur caught a nice, fat bluegill, then another. Mary Beth clapped. She was very excited by the catch. He cleaned and filleted both fish as Mary Beth ground up some salt and pepper in a little mill. Arthur set the fillets on the pan and she sprinkled on the seasoning. By now the sun was down and the nighttime animals had come out for their evening prize. They could hear raccoons chattering and other weird animal noises in the distance, but nothing close enough to fear. After frying up and eating the fish, they split a can of strawberries for dessert. Between them it was like a whole swelling song. A harmony of nothing and thinking and peace. The temperature fell a little further with the sun gone away, and now they could see their breath, so they put on their coats and huddled close to the fire and close to one another, leaning up against a big rock. Arthur sensed that something was on Mary Beth's mind. She seemed to watch the fire like she was begging it to breathe into life, a Phoenix.

“Mary Beth,” he said, after some time.

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Everything okay? You seem a little...quiet.”

“I’m fine.” she said. She shifted toward him, held her hands over the fire. “I just been thinking. The country up here is big and it makes me feel things. That’s all.”

“I get that,” said Arthur. “I get that a lot.”

They warmed their hands to the flame. She leaned against him, casually, placed her head on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” she said.

“I’m fine,” said Arthur. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she said. “Or—just, last night. You had a bad dream. Do you remember?” She was looking up at the dark night sky. The smoke from the fire went up and was mingling with the stars.

Arthur didn't say anything at first. "Nevermind," she said.

“It's all right," he said. He looked down at his gloved hands. "I do remember. Sort of. I remember the dream.”

“What was it?”

“I’ve had it a couple times now,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. He wore his hat with a judicious feather of Cardinal. “It’s like, I’m living inside this polar bear skin.”

“A polar bear?” said Mary Beth.

“Yeah. I’m about to die, but I climb out instead, and when I do, the world is gone. It’s burned. It wakes me like that every time.”

“That sounds awful,” said Mary Beth.

“It ain’t pleasant,” said Arthur, resituating against the rock. He pulled his knees up to study the elaborate threading of his leather boots. “And every time I wake up from the dream, I been seeing something different. Some _one_ different.”

“Like who?” she said. "Like Eliza?"

He looked at her, curious. He nodded. "Like Eliza."

She perked up a little, her eyebrows very pursed in concern. “That is what you said to me. You thought I was her?”

“Yes, or no. It wasn't that simple.”

“Who is she, Arthur?”

Arthur was quiet about it. The barbed wire creeping. But he was aching, too. He didn’t see the good in holding it inside. Not here, all alone out here, just them two. He and Mary Beth, they saw the world in such a similar way. He had opened up to her before. He sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I talked about this,” he said, almost to no one, to nothing. Almost laughing at himself. 

“I know you had a girl once, before Mary Gillis. Abigail...she might have mentioned, once. Don't blame her. It wasn't gossip. Is that Eliza?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Arthur. 

Mary Beth just nodded. “I see. Is it bad?”

“She died,” said Arthur, surprising even himself. The words tasted, felt odd in his mouth. He picked up the empty can of strawberries. He studied the label. “It was more than ten years ago now. We had a baby. A boy. He grew to about four years old, and then the two of them—they was killed, by bandits, robbers, at their own home. I wasn’t there. I suppose I dream about it, sometimes. I want you to know, I wasn’t calling you Eliza, Mary Beth. It wasn’t like that. I was just…confused about where I was, after the dream and all. I’m sorry. These dreams—they can really take hold of you if you ain't prepared, which one never really can be.”

Mary Beth was staring now, right into him. He was staring at the fire, but he could feel her. She linked her arm inside of his with a great deal of intent. It was sort of like she already knew, or like she had divined it out of him, but of course that was foolish. He felt her little arm in his.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” she said. “Truly, I am. Thank you for trusting me with your story. For letting me help you carry it.”

“Of course,” he said, tossing the can into the darkness. “But there ain't nothing to be sorry for. I’m just shocked I found a way to say it out loud again.” It felt simple right now, but he knew. He knew nothing was so simple as just talking. He took a very deep breath.

Mary Beth smiled. He smiled down at her, in some sort of relief or embarrassment. She just put her head back on his shoulder for a little while and they waited beside one another, feeling the earth, hard and sore beneath their boots.

“You want some gin?” she said in a little while, out of nowhere. "Seems appropriate."

“Gin?”

“Mrs. Lizette Winterson gave me a novelty bottle before we left the B&B,” said Mary Beth. “You want some?”

Arthur smiled. “They sure liked you.”

“They liked you, too,” she said, and she hopped up. She patted him on his hat and then went to fetch the bottle off her horse nearby. “It’s a good bottle. It smells clean.”

“Clean is good,” said Arthur.

“You want some?”

“Sure. Just a little though.”

“A little is good,” said Mary Beth. She sat back down by his side and poured a couple slugs into their tin cups from dinner. She garnished the gin with little sprigs of mint, mostly for the looks, but it smelled nice. They touched their cups together.

“What are we toasting to?” said Arthur.

“I’m not sure,” said Mary Beth. "What's brought us here?"

“It was Sean, wasn't it?" said Arthur. "Old Sean MacGuire."

She got bright. “That’s right,” she said. And she held up her glass. “To Sean, and to all those who’ve gone from this life and on to the next.”

“To Sean,” said Arthur, solemn, but grateful. “He was a goddam idiot, but I liked him.”

"Me, too."

They drank.

Arthur liked the gin—the mint made it feel very refreshing, like a cap on his sadness. Meanwhile, Mary Beth immediately shook out her head and laughed. “Yuck,” she said.

“Yuck?” said Arthur, admiring the gin in the bottom of his cup. “Tastes like Christmas trees if you ask me.”

“Well you are clearly more accustomed to the hard stuff, Arthur Morgan.”

“I don’t doubt that, Mary Beth Gaskill.”

They drank some more. Mary Beth sipped hers little by little and seemed to become tipsy in an instant. She was funny now, like she was trying to lighten the mood. To cheer him up as she was wont to do, and she spoke very fast about many things that interested her about their trip so far. The color of the mountains, the idiots on the bridge, the funny Frenchwoman, Lawrence and his little glasses, Arthur's bullet wound, the fight. Just as he had thought, she liked the orange flowers of the terrain very much. She liked the sky here, too. She said it was so clear, she thought to drink it. He thought it a beautiful image. Arthur listened to her talk, and he listened to the night world going off around them. It seemed safe. They were safe here, he thought. No trouble would befall them that night. He had decided. He sipped his gin.

“You know,” said Mary Beth, after a little while. She had finished her cup and poured a little more. Arthur stopped after one. He could sense she had warmed to him and she felt him responding. He was okay inside, sort of. She could tell. 

“What is it?” he said.

“I used to have a really good daddy,” she went on, a little random, peering down into her drink. She nodded, stirred it a little with her finger. "He was a good man."

“Is that right?”

“He was a blacksmith,” she said. She took another sip. “And he was good to my mama and my brother and me. He was a literate man. We all could read, he saw to it. We had a homestead ranch in the cuts outside of Shawnee, Kansas.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” said Arthur.

“Oh yes,” said Mary Beth, smiling to herself. “Well, I did. Before he died, that is. He was about four years older than me.”

The way she'd said it was nonchalant. Arthur fixed on her. She was watery in her eyes now. Not drunk, but softened by the booze. He knew she wasn’t done with her story and sensed her unfolding. Like she was going to tell him now, her tragic past. Just as he had told her his. “Go on,” he said.

“My mama was a baker, and she sold her pies to the local market. I had a good childhood.”

“That sounds real good, Mary Beth. Real good."

“Yeah, it was,” she said.

He waited. She seemed like she wanted to set down her cup. It was not empty, but she seemed to be finished with it. He held out his hand, she gave it to him. He set it aside, staring right at her. But she was looking at her boots.

“When I was about twelve," she continued, dreamy at first, but then solemn, sniffling from the cold, "my parents was out, on the town one night. They went to a show or something. They was in love. They went on dates. My brother was home with me. We was playing a card game, Spades I think. He let me stay up late. My parents was robbed that night, on the ride home, my daddy killed by bandits after his pocket book, and his coach. They took the dress off my mama’s back and she nearly died as well from the cold. Violated, of course. Probably somewhere dark, outside. Only I didn’t realize then. I was...naive. I was twelve. When we found her, my brother covered my eyes and he put his jacket over my mama’s shoulders and we helped her home. I never saw my daddy’s body. I didn’t get to see much of anything, but I do remember my mama was just in her slip. She soon got...very ill, after that. Local doctor said she caught Typhoid Fever. Nobody knew where. The event and my daddy’s death put her at the end of her life, and she was depressed, on top of the illness. I do remember her, her drinking. All day. She wasted away. Mumbling and such, picking at her bed clothes like she thought they was infested with bugs. The fever made her say and do odd things. I’ll never forget. She died a month later.”

Arthur sighed. He took her gloved hand in his. It was very small. “I’m sorry, Mary Beth. That sounds very hard.”

She smiled, low. It was her way. To smile. To always try and smile. “Thanks, Arthur. Anyway me and my brother was taken away from each other after that. Me and Bobby. That was his name. They stuck me in a home for orphans in Shawnee, but he was old enough and he found work at the mine.”

“Coal mining?” said Arthur.

“Yeah. Coal. But he had a...accident. That’s what they told me. About a year later. A bad fall. Broke his spine. That's how he died. All the money he made, he kept squirreled away and he would bring me a billfold every Saturday. I had been saving. I used most of it to bury him proper. We had a church funeral and I was the only one who came, save for the pastor. They let me out of the orphanage for it and that is the night I slipped their eye. I went to Kansas City with fifteen dollars to my name. I met a madame who was good and she found me before it was too late. Said I was too young and too pretty for whoring but she liked my disposition and taught me to pick pockets instead. To be…persuasive. I ain’t never whored, Arthur. I ain’t never been that kind of girl, no matter how bad it got. I swear.”

She seemed nervous as she said it, like she was apologizing, or meaning to prove something to him. Arthur was just listening, but when she got to this part, he became almost alarmed—not by what she’d said, but how she’d said it. He straightened up. He felt something snag inside him. Some hard protective nature coming into focus. He didn’t want her thinking like this, feeling these things about herself. “I would never judge you for that, Mary Beth. Not ever. Do you hear?" 

“Arthur—“

“I said, do you hear?" 

She was fixed in his eyes, blue as winter. She believed him. “Yes, I do.”

“Good,” said Arthur. He slouched back a little, against that cold rock. He opened up his chest and put his arm around her shoulders. He kissed the top of her lavender head, held her fiercely out of some pure instinct. He was deep inside that moment and not coming up for nothing. He was reminding her of something, something real between them, and about him, who he was. What little he truly understood about himself, this was it. He wasn't going on and letting her think her worth to him somehow depended on her past hardships. They sat like that for a little while.

Meanwhile, Mary Beth felt protected and guilty and happy and uncertain and very warm in his embrace. She was tipsy, but she was not far gone, and she’d never been held like this—not by him, not by a man she cared about, so safe and familiar. She placed her face into the scruff on his neck and just breathed. It made her feel all better. It calmed her senses, her nerves, her sadness and her anxieties. He was allowing her to do this. He had one of his big gloved hands in her hair. He took a deep breath and she could feel his wide chest rising and then falling against her in an exhale. Then, she closed her eyes for a moment, and he began to speak in his deep voice.

“I remember that day I met you,” he said. She could hear the smiling in his voice. She opened her eyes. “We brought you back to our camp in Leawood. You had about a hundred stories and you had a…very expensive hunting knife holstered on you, if I recall correctly, one of the likes I’d never seen. What was it, four years ago?”

“About,” said Mary Beth, smiling. “I stole that knife off a brigadier. Or, that's what he said he was. I’m not sure what a brigadier would be doing in Kansas. Even still. It wasn’t hard.”

“Well, you’ve got talent.”

“I was little more than a kid I suppose,” she said. “When you found me.” She shrugged. 

“You wasn’t no kid,” said Arthur, like an affirmation. He looked down at her, very serious. “You was surviving. It’s all we’ve ever done, souls like us, Mary Beth. Growing up fast, living hard, because we have to.”

His wisdom crushed into her, face first. She was so grateful. “I reckon we are just a couple of busted umbrellas, you and me,” she said. “Been through one too many storms in this lifetime.”

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “But you have taught me that there’s always some good in the world, somewhere. Despite it all. And we’ll get through it. It’s gonna be okay, Mary Beth.”

He squeezed her tight. She smiled to herself. Something between them cracked wide open. Arthur watched the fire. She put her head back onto his shoulder. She examined the sky. It was so big. So big, she could barely understand. “It sure is pretty here,” said Mary Beth, wistful. They seemed to float.

“It sure is,” said Arthur. 


	7. Misdirection

“You know, Arthur,” said Mary Beth, two days later, as they were riding along in Ambarino. Up in the advancing beauty of the Grizzlies.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Back in Horseshoe Overlook,” she said, bashful, “I was real scared.”

“Scared?”

“Yeah. Scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Bounty Hunters,” she said. “Pinkertons. I ain’t never seen trouble like what we been through in Blackwater. Pushing east like this, I began to fear for the worst. The other girls kept me straight, but I was just…scared.”

They stopped. They finally met with O’Creagh’s Run, idled there, surveying the beauty of the lake, calling them close. Arthur leaned forward to scratch Sarah behind the ears. He turned to look at Mary Beth, and she looked truly earnest and like she was staring into some foreign abyss, sitting straight up and down on her filly. “We was all scared,” he said. “I’m still scared sometimes, to tell you the truth.”

Then, she looked at him. “Why?”

Arthur sighed. He, again, looked down at his callused fingers, and he took off his riding gloves to see the scars on his knuckles, which he regarded as fossils. “Times is changing,” he said. “We don’t know where this whole thing is headed, Mary Beth. But I don’t want you to be scared. There’s nobody coming after you. I’ll see to it.”

She smiled. Her shoulders fell. She seemed relieved, but now she was worried. “I know you’re looking after me,” she said. “But who’s looking after you, Arthur? Do you know?”

Arthur thought about the many ways he had been let down in the immediate past by the men he once deemed as his family. It saddened him. He couldn’t figure it out. “I don’t know,” he said, and he smiled to keep her calm. “I’ll be okay.”

She watched him, full of eagerness and kindness. And she huffed like she was dissatisfied, and then she got off her horse.

“Where you going?” he said.

“For a swim,” said Mary Beth. She took off her jacket and tossed it to her horse’s saddle. Then she began to unbutton her blouse.

Arthur looked away, in some form of gentlemen’s shock. He shielded his eyes as if the sun were too bright. “Mary Beth, my lord.”

“Oh come on,” she said. “I ain’t going full nude. I’d invite you to join me, but I don’t think you should get your stitches wet, Arthur. Maybe you could wade in, just up to your waist?”

Arthur was still trying not to look. But his gaze wandered. It’s true the sun was big that day so far. She was just in a plain slip now—something like that. A chemise? He couldn’t remember all the terminology. It still went from her shoulders to her calves, but it was white, and the fabric was thin, with pretty ribbons and things he wondered if she’d stitched in herself. He watched sharply as she braided her hair over her shoulder, and then she looked at him and laughed.

“You’re red as an apple,” she said. “Never seen a woman in her underthings before, Mr. Morgan?”

“I mean—” He was almost laughing now, surely smiling. At himself, of course. He did feel right warm in his cheeks. He removed his hat. “I have. It is only that, I am now trying to determine how I should proceed.”

“How’s that?”

“One moment we are talking about our deepest darkest fears and the Pinkertons, and the next, you are in your drawers, ready to go swimming. You got me moving in about five different directions at once, Mary Beth.”

“Well, I move fast,” she said, tying off the braid with a nice piece of twine. “And I get bored. And these ain’t drawers, Arthur. My drawers are over there, by my dress. And I feel dirty from the ride. I even still got some of your blood on my hands, here, caked in the crevices. See?” She held them up, showed him. “It ain’t ladylike to walk around with blood on your hands.”

He got off his horse, took her hands in his, studied them for a moment, and the sight of his blood there was like an intimate reminder. He looked around then and surveyed the water. “It’s gonna be cold,” he said. “And the sun might be out for now, but those is clouds on the horizon.”

“So? It don’t look like rain just yet.”

“These lake waters’ll chill you,” he said.

“I can handle it,” she said. “Promise I won’t go far. I’ll stay right by the shore.”

Arthur exhaled. “I guess I could do with a wash. But you’re right about the stitches.”

“Just make sure they’re covered, and don’t submerge them. You’ll be fine,” she said. “Come on, Arthur.”

She went in first, while waiting for him to undress. She hooted in surprise excitement by the chill of the water and dunked her head under immediately. “Sweet fuckin Christmas,” she said. “That’s cold!”

“I told you,” said Arthur. He had removed his coat, his leather vest with the fringes, his gloves and his shirt. He examined the stitches, which were hidden under a clean strip of linen that Mary Beth had dressed for him that morning. The wound looked clean and tight. His arm still ached, but it was nothing like what he’d gone through with them O’Driscolls. That scar you could still see. It was a big spiderweb, spanning the entire crevice of his shoulder to his chest. It still zinged him sometimes. Like he’d feel it—the candle pressing to the right hole in his skin. He got down to his drawers and felt like an idiot, but he had done this countless times—bathed in nature. Just, usually he was alone. But Mary Beth was unashamed. He hopped in and it was cold as shit but he felt immediately rejuvenated. He splashed is face, rubbed it hard until he felt his mind and his sinuses open wide. He ran water the through his hair, getting kind of lost in how good it felt after all.

At some point, Mary Beth screamed while he was rinsing the dirt off the back of his neck. This startled him, yanking him back to reality, but then she burst into laughter, and by now, he was in up to his waist, and he asked her what happened, and she said a big fish had flopped up against her and it was gross.

“A fish?” he said, half-incredulous.

“I hope so!”

But then she stopped laughing when she looked at him.

“What’s wrong?” said Arthur.

She shrugged. She treaded over until her feet could touch—she was about a full head under him in height. She was very curious all of a sudden, toward him, and she was looking at that nasty scar in his shoulder. “That’s it,” she said. “From the O’Driscolls?”

Arther looked at it then looked at her. Her hair was all flat and matted to her freckles. She wore no make-up that he could discern. “Not too pretty, is it?”

“Can I touch it?” she said.

“Sure.”

She touched it with her fingertips, gingerly, like she needed to prove to herself that it was real, but like she also didn’t want to hurt him. “Does it still hurt?”

“Sometimes,” he said, watching her. “Deep, like it’s reminding me of something.”

She shook her head, covered her mouth, still touching the scar, tracing its shape over and over. “Gosh I remember that night,” she said.

“Wasn’t it you who found me?” he said. “I kind of remember.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “You had fallen off your horse. I was feeding Watson. Your horse was there, and you were there beside it on the ground, just layin there. I thought you was dead, Arthur. It was terrible.”

“Well, I’m fine now,” he said. He smiled down at her. “It’s all healed up.”

She blushed, blinked her eyes. “Yeah,” she said, looking away. Then she scooped up a little water in her palms and reached way up high to pour it over his head, careful not to let it fall greatly to his shoulders. It wasn’t much, but it would do, a nice defusing of the moment. “There,” she said, like she was okay again. She scrubbed the water to his scalp. She really did move fast. It was truly fascinating. “You’re looking shinier already, Arthur Morgan. Like a knight.”

He shook the water out of his hair, felt a little like a dog, but in a good way. “Well, thank you, Mary Beth.”

She swam away, went under a couple more times. He rinsed a little more water through his hair and over his face, and then he got out before her and set up the tent and went inside to change into dry clothes. He supposed the lake was as good a place to camp as any. He’d set up here many times before. It was quiet, and enough riders came down the path that the bears and the wolves usually kept away. There was tree cover, too, and the clouds on the horizon looked like they could move in with some rain. When he came out, he went to get his fishing rod to catch their dinner, and there she was, barefoot, wringing out her hair next to Watson, dripping from head to toe. She had a hair pin pressed between her lips as she was rifling through her bedroll, and her saddle bag and coming up with a new skirt and a new blouse and some other clean things all rolled up tight. She was rushed, as it was getting colder now. The clouds were moving in.

He lit a cigarette. Night was falling, too. He went to the lake’s edge and cast his lure into the water. It bobbed a little and he flicked the line. Behind him, inside the tent, Mary Beth was humming a little tune as she got dressed. It was pleasant. She didn’t have a perfect singing voice, but it was pretty to him, and it sweetened the twilight air. He liked women in this way. He liked her in this way. In fact, this entire trip was reminding him that he did not prefer to be alone in the wild. He preferred company and the safety of belonging.

The world was getting cool with the sun down now as he smoked and fished and waited for the rain. Even still, as a man of nature, he always hoped for that bright evening reveal of the stars. He had a memory of his mother, and how she used to sing while she baked or cooked in the kitchen. His daddy was a no-good with a penchant to beat them both. But Arthur still remembered her singing and how he felt so small and helpless, but also safe with her there. He’d sit at the table, coloring with crayons on parchment that she had saved up and bought him from the penny store, and he’d listen to her, and outside the wind chimes would play along and play along, and for these little bursts of time and energy, he was happy, and life was sweet.

“Arthur?” said Mary Beth.

He tossed his cigarette, concentrated on the lake. “Yes, Mary Beth,” he said.

“I seen a bunch of wild carrots growing around here,” she said. “I could pick some, shave em down and add some salt and rosemary. We could have a nice little carrot bake with dinner.”

Arthur smiled. “That sounds good,” he said. But then he turned back. “Don’t go far.”

“I’ll be right over there,” she said, pointing. “By them trees, on the bluff.”

“Okay.” He watched her go. She was dressed in a yellow blouse now with a long, heavy blue skirt and a gray jacket. Her wet hair was braided, but it was a new braid. He could tell. She had her shiny new shotgun slung over her shoulder and a little woven basket for collecting her find.

He smiled as she went and then turned back to the lake. He caught a bite right quick after that, reeled it in with a stoic satisfaction. A solid Pike—five pounds or more. He thought this would probably be enough to feed them both. Still, he wrapped the fish and continued with his lure in the water, just a little while longer. It would be good to have an extra catch for their breakfast in the morning. Arthur liked to be prepared. At one point, he looked up overhead and saw how the clouds had advanced, and he got nervous. He didn’t know how their tent would hold in a proper storm. He reckoned they’d make it work somehow.

But then, he heard a bad sound. He surfaced back into reality. This was something new—a man’s voice. He looked back immediately, to the place where Mary Beth had gone carrot-picking. He saw her, right there, on her knees with her hands in the earth. He breathed. Watched. Felt a raindrop on his eyebrow. She seemed to feel one, too, looked up, but it didn’t bother her. Perhaps it had only been the horses, he thought. Horses can grunt and sound like men when you ain’t paying close attention. He turned his head to see them, shuffling, grazing, and then he blinked, and he looked back to where Mary Beth had been, picking the carrots, but when he did, he did not see Mary Beth no more, and he panicked.

“Mary Beth?” he called out. He thought perhaps she had just gone over the bluff. He called out for her again. He said her name again. She still did not respond. He put away the fishing rod and hauled back to the camp. He looked around, still didn’t see her. He got ice cold all of a sudden. He had a bad feeling, and so he said her name again, loudly, but she was still not responding. This was not right.

He picked up his repeater off Sarah, loaded. The rain drops were more now, and they were fat, splashing into his hair. The crickets were singing. He approached the little bluff, the trees where he’d last seen her. He said her name again. “Mary Beth?” Still loud as before. It was not what he had expected, all his senses were on high alert.

He heard a muffled cry then, and some struggle, and he took off up the bluff immediately, toward the sound. He didn’t know what he might find. The moment he crested, he heard her specifically. Screaming his name, and then he saw. At first he could not make out what he was seeing, but then the gnarled truth of the situation revealed itself. There was a man—he had been right, and it was not horses—it was a man he did not know who had tied Mary Beth’s hands behind her back and gagged her, and now in slow motion, he was throwing her over his shoulder. It was one of those fucking feral creatures from the Roanoke Valley. It was the fucking Murfree Brood, he thought, way out here where they didn’t belong. They was here, and they was taking Mary Beth.

Arthur didn’t think after that. It was only action. He didn’t even say her name. He opened his satchel with his fast hands, took a half bottle of moonshine he kept stuffed with an alcoholed linen, and he lit it with a match from his boot. He pitched back the length of his shoulder and let that bottle loose into the air. There was a hush. But then it landed a good long fifteen feet up and to the left of the man and Mary Beth, and it smashed into the earth, spreading fire like mania, and it was loud. The fire was short-lived in the rain, and it did no damage to anyone but it scared the shit out of the man, just as Arthur intended, and he swore and yelled out, and he stumbled back into a patch of bramble and lost his grip on Mary Beth. Arthur rushed in then. She ducked her head and fell to the earth. The moment she was down, Arthur was close enough and shouted for her to stay there, and then he picked that repeater up and iced the man in his skull four inches deep. His body flew up and back and into the weeds, hard dead.

“Mary Beth?” said Arthur now, finally. Big clouds had moved in overhead. It was raining, full steady. He put the gun strap back over his shoulder and sprinted to her. She was struggling against the ties on her wrists—had almost broken free. He yanked the gag out her mouth and she spat and shook out her head, and he cut the ties with his hunting knife and she stumbled into him, disoriented.

“Hey,” he said, straightening her out, looking her in the eye, cradling her face in his palms. “Are you okay? Did you bump your head?”

“Oh my god,” she said, looking at the dead man with his head blown off, a little shaken. “I—I’m okay. I’m so sorry, Arthur. I didn’t see him coming. I mean I been grabbed before. But he was so quiet. Who was that man?”

Arthur held her to his chest for a minute, to comfort her, but he looked around, nervous. “Murfree Brood,” he said. “I can tell by the clothes. I run into them before, but I ain’t never known them to come this far west. They’re getting brave.”

“Who’s the Murfree Brood? Another gang?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Inbred cannibals as far as I can tell.”

“Cannibals?” said Mary Beth. “That’s disgusting.”

“We got to get out of here,” he said, the rain falling on both their faces. “He ain’t gonna be alone.”

Mary Beth nodded eagerly. It was time to go.

So Arthur slowly knelt to the ground, picked up her shotgun out the weeds, handed it back to her delicately. She put it over her shoulder. He wasn’t sure whether they should move fast or slow. The whole time, he kept his eyes on the woods. He felt it watching him right back. Night had fallen. The day was gone. “Come on,” he said.

There are times when a man like Arthur Morgan will count himself as one of the most careful men to ever live. He is wise and attuned to his surroundings, alert, an expert protector. He does not take risks that he knows he cannot rectify after the fact. He does not risk lives. None other than his own, of course. But even great men like Arthur Morgan make mistakes.

They took a couple steps. The rain hastened. Before they could get off in any direction, they heard the horses, going berserk back at their camp. It could have just been the lightning moving in off the horizon, but it fucked with their attention either way, caught Arthur off guard, and he stopped them both. He couldn’t see everything at once. He just couldn’t. Low and far away, there was thunder, booming. He squinted through the rain and the dark toward the lake to try and find something—anything. But instead he was mistaken. They were ambushed, right then. He felt a hard hand on his shoulder, and before he could react, a boot came out past him and kicked Mary Beth down into the mud. She fell hard and cried out. Arthur reached for her, but he was dragged backward, caught inside a stranger’s embrace, and now there was the blade of a long, sharp knife pressed to the soft of his throat. He lost his breath, scared, angry at having been fooled. He dropped his repeater, held his hands up, surrendering. It happened very fast.

“Okay,” he said to his attacker, gruff, eyes on Mary Beth all the time. He grunted, struggled only lightly against the knife. “Okay. I’m got. What do you want?”

The man laughed at first. He was not as tall as Arthur but surprisingly strong. Mary Beth was jangled in the mud, finding her bearings. When she looked up in the rain her eyes got big. She looked like an animal trapped in a corner. She scrambled to her feet, bringing that shotgun with her. She held it up to her shoulder, pointing it at the man.

The man laughed at this, but Arthur did not. Arthur wanted to see his face. He could only smell his putrid breath. He could not struggle greatly. He could not die there, not that day. If he died—that was failing. “Mary Beth, don’t shoot that gun,” he said.

“Let him go,” she said through the rain, strangled by her fear, but facing it. She held the gun with a surprising steadiness, though Arthur knew what kind of gun it was. She’d never get a clean shot.

“Put down the gun, Mary Beth,” said Arthur. He had his hands up and lowered them steadily, staring at her, begging her. “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” she said, holding the gun even higher now. “It ain’t okay, Arthur.”

Arthur inhaled, panicked for a moment. She was gonna shoot. “Please,” he said. “It’s okay.”

“We’ll bring you back to the mountains with us,” said the man. He had a low, ugly drawl. He smelled of rotting flesh, even in the cold rain. “Make good use of your girl. Insides, and outsides.”

“Why don’t you just kill me then,” said Arthur, growling, trying to crane his neck a little. Every time he moved, the knife got deeper. He felt it graze the skin. It stung. “That’d make it a whole lot easier for you.”

“Because we like you,” said the motherfucker. “ _You._ We always waiting for you. Such a pretty boy.”

Mary Beth was crying now. The storm was kicking up. The man with the knife half-laughed and half-coughed. Arthur was trying to think, thinking fast. He was counting on his surroundings to do him a favor.

“Ain’t you all a little far west for comfort?” he said, trying to hold him off. “I didn’t think your kind ventured this well above the valley.”

“We venture all over the place,” said the man, sort of gleeful, regripping, tighter. Arthur couldn’t hardly breathe. “It’s a new world.”

“Yeah,” Arthur grunted, staring at Mary Beth. “I think I heard about that.” He tried to stay aloof to the man’s antagonizing, to keep the situation from escalating any further. He shook his head at Mary Beth, subtly as he could. _Lower the gun,_ he mouthed. She shook her head. She was completely soaked, covered in mud. _Lower the gun,_ he mouthed again, with conviction.

But it turned out, she didn’t need to do any such thing. In that moment, there was a huge crack in the night sky. So big. They could smell burning. The horses flew up and Arthur heard galluping. A bolt of lightning had struck a nearby tree. One of its branches dangled and fell into the woods, and there were birds scattering everywhere in the rain, and the noise was so loud, it startled all three of them. It was exactly what Arthur had been hoping for, as in this moment, the man lost just one semblance of his balance, and this was all it took. Arthur was able to get loose enough from the knife that he could throw his head back, headbutt the man so that he stumbled, and Arthur was free. He watched the man fumbling for the pistol shoved in his crude leather belt as he tripped backward, but in the meantime, Arthur was far too quick and drew his own, sharpshot him right between the eyes. The man went down, his body rolling through the rain and the mud to the bottom of the bluff. Arthur was breathing hard. He grabbed at his throat where the man had been choking him to remind himself he could breath. He looked back at Mary Beth who had finally lowered the gun and stared with incredulity as two men rose up behind her from the woods. One had a shotgun, the other had a machete. They were like cockroaches, thought Arthur. Ghouls. He raised his pistol and shot them both dead before they even realized they’d been spotted. They went down. He knew this was all of them. But the gunshots and the thunder and the blood were too much. It all scared the shit out of Mary Beth, and she dropped to her hands and knees and covered her head reflexively as the rain beat down. She was crying. It was over.

The fallen tree branch was smoking in the brush. It had caught gentle fire, but the storm was stifling it quickly. Arthur came to, blinking hard against the adrenaline pounding through his skull. He holstered his pistol, went right to Mary Beth and dropped to his knees to pick her up close to him. Her face in his neck, sobbing, he tucked her up real tight in his arms and held her something fierce, looking around at all the hell that had befallen them so quickly. What had happened? The rain fell hard all everywhere and on top of them in the dark, ugly mud. At first, he was real quiet, just let her cry, but as her sobs got bigger, he started to tell her it was okay, it was okay. They were okay. He pushed the hair off her face, trying to get ahold of her eyes, but she was so shook up. He could only keep her there, both of them soaked and covered in the awful filth of the pursuit in the middle of a raging storm. Nobody bloodied, nobody dead but the bad guys. But it was bad this time, thought Arthur as he held her there. It was real bad.


	8. Veteran Hearts

“It’s okay,” said Arthur in the rain. “It’s all okay now."

More thunder went off overhead, and the sky turned big and white. Somewhere, you could hear the horses, getting frantic, but there was nothing he could do about that now. Arthur felt split down the middle. He did not know what to do.  He was typically a calm man in the face of adversity. He was good at improvising and very good at surviving. He had been in rough predicaments like this many times before. But never with a woman, not like this.

Arthur's anxieties, subtle as they often were, were real and quite mean, and they felt right beneath the surface of his heart that night, pressing in and up until the pressure in his head became almost unbearable. He kept thinking of that dream, that goddam polar bear. Why the hell was it a polar bear? What did that mean? Why was his mind such a series of obstacles these days, so much heavily in his way? If he could just move everything around, make a goddam path. But he wasn't afraid of the storm, and he wasn't afraid of the goddam Murfree Brood. That was true, because it wasn't things like this that scared him. In truth, Arthur rarely understood his fears until they were right up on him. He had spent a long time pushing them down into that barbed wire and that is where he liked to keep them. But they were creeping now. He had been afraid, earlier, when he saw Mary Beth being hauled off by that ingrate. That was something he learned about himself that night, something that scared him. Even still, Arthur did not rightly seem to realize just how much he cared about her. He knew he held affection for her, but it had all started to crystallize in new ways these past couple of nights, ways that he had not yet found the guts or means to acknowledge. She had become a fixture in his life, an anchor, and the prospect of her being in danger or sadness terrified him far worse and far more specifically than the simple, generic anxiety he felt over protecting the other members of the gang. He just didn't realize it yet. He didn't know, or else he just could not yet find a way to acknowledge why he was so goddam shook.

But he was not afraid, that is what he told himself. He was in control. Because the ingrates were dead, and a storm was just a storm. He just had to calm Mary Beth. Once he calmed her, then his next choice would reveal itself. He was not one to underestimate Mary Beth. He knew she could handle things. He'd seen her handle things. He'd been robbing and dancing and living with her for many years. He would not have taken her on this trip if he did not know she could handle things. He knew she'd come out of it. She was a strong girl. He just needed to wait.

So he did. The wind settled. Some minutes went by of him waiting and looking around, telling her it was okay, and cradling her wet head. He could no longer hear the horses. There were no more enemies in the forest. At some point, as he was squinting into the darkened rainscape toward their camp, that is when he finally felt her. He looked down and she had stopped crying. She planted her hands on his shoulders and pulled herself up to look at him. She was shaken but alert. It was like she had surfaced from a long, restless sleep, but there she was. She blinked into the rain. She looked full of guilt for some reason. "Oh my god," she said, shaking her head. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry, Arthur. I lost my composure."

"Don't be sorry," he said, removing some of the matted hair from her cheeks, desperately relieved to hear her talking. "That was bad, Mary Beth. Real bad, but it's over now. Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"No," she said quickly. "I mean maybe a bruise here or there, but I'm okay, Arthur. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay."

“What do we do now?” she said.

“We should go," he said.

“Go where?”

“We should get back to the tent, see if it's held up. We need to take shelter."

"What about the horses?"

"They won't stray far," said Arthur, looking around again. "They're good girls. Don't worry. We'll find them tomorrow."

He heard a branch breaking then, somewhere in the trees behind them. More branches. It was footsteps, loud. Over this shit, he wasted no time. He shielded Mary Beth to his chest, stood and drew his pistol. He pointed it straight into the indecipherable shapes of the trees.

“Show yourself,” he shouted over the storm. “I know you’re there. No use running."

It took a minute of waiting, squinting through the rain. He pulled back the hammer, ready to shoot. But then, someone appeared. It was a man, an old man, stepping out of the brush with both his hands in the air. It was not Murfree Brood. He was wearing a white hat, a big old rifle slung over his shoulder. He looked rightly serious but unafraid. “Don’t shoot,” he shouted, hobbling out into the open with a considerable limp. “I ain’t here to hurt nobody. I live nearby, and I am just passing through.”

"Passing through in the middle of a thunderstorm?" said Arthur.

The man seemed amused by this, but in a good way. He said, "I was out hunting, on my way in on account of the unfortunate weather. I found some horses, wandering the trees. Just through there." He gestured to the trees behind him. "They got saddles. A pretty little Apaloosa and a right expensive-looking Foxtrotter. They are spooked to high hell. They yours?"

Arthur eyeballed him hard. “They might be," he said. 

"Well, I wrangled them for you. I'll take you to them. But I would prefer you lower that gun first, son. I promise, I ain't here to hurt you. You can trust me."

Arthur was breathing heavy, unwilling at first. But then Mary Beth tugged at his collar, stood up on her tip-toes to reach his ear. She said, "I think he's telling the truth. Put down the gun, Arthur."

Arthur hesitated, but ultimately, he listened to her. He released the hammer on the pistol and dropped it into his holster. Then he took a step toward the man, keeping Mary Beth a little behind him. "Okay," he said. "I'll trust you. For now."

The old man immediately smiled. He had long white hair and a good white beard. He said, "About time." Then he held out his hand. "I'm Hamish Sinclair. Like I said, I live around here."

"Arthur Morgan," said Arthur, clasping the man's hand with his. They shook once in the rain. "This here's Mary Beth."

"Hi," she said, reaching out her hand. Hamish shook it, albeit gentler than he'd shaken Arthur's. 

"Very nice to meet you both," said Hamish, in all earnestness. "Now, tell me. What the hell are you doing out here?" 

"We was just camping," said Mary Beth. "And then we was ambushed."

“By what?” said Hamish, looking at Arthur now.

“Murfree Brood,” said Arthur. "Four of them. They're all dead now."

“My god,” said Hamish. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, though it seemed fruitless given the rain. “This far west?”

“Apparently."

"Goddam creeps. Jesus. Well." He looked around, satisfied over something. "At least they're dead," he said. He adjusted the belt around his waist. His clothes were hanging off him, soaked, but he was dressed well for the rain. "What is your plan now?"

"We was just heading back to our camp, to see what's become of our tent," said Arthur. "We need shelter, obviously."

Hamish nodded, squinted up at the dreaded sky. “Your tent won't do in this," he said. "Besides, I seen your camp. Down by the lake? It's torn to pieces."

"Seriously?" said Mary Beth. 

"It's okay," said Hamish, determined as he surveyed the flooding terrain. "You two can come with me. I got room in my cabin, a little loft overhead. It ain't much, but it's space enough. You can take shelter till morning.”

Arthur stared at him, a little incredulous. Then he glanced at Mary Beth. "Are you sure?" he said to Hamish. "You don't know us."

"Sure I do," said Hamish, smiling. He was real canny, that was for sure. He didn't seem to miss much. He reminded Arthur a little of Mr. Lawrence Winterson back in Emerald Station. "I know a good buck and his doe when I see one. Come on."

“Thank you,” said Mary Beth, right away.

"Yes, thank you, sir," said Arthur.

"Don't mention it."

The man reached then to help Arthur forward and down the bluff. Arthur released Mary Beth and took her hand instead, their fingers laced tightly. Once they got down past the trees, Arthur could see what had become of their camp. The tent was still standing, but only just. Anything else they had laying about was strewn to the trees with the wind and some of it was blowing still. Mary Beth looked at it in mild disbelief. They would come back tomorrow, he thought, salvage what they could. Hamish had the horses tethered together, idling by the water where they looked cold and wet but no longer distressed or fearful. Beside them was one more horse—a pretty Dutch Warmblood in a pale champagne. Arthur took this for Hamish’s horse and admired its clean cut beauty. It was only a good man to keep a horse like that.

“Let’s go,” said Hamish. “It's about a mile or so, around the lake. It’ll be faster to ride.”

“You good to ride?” said Arthur to Mary Beth.

She nodded. He helped her onto her horse. She hugged Watson and patted her dearly on the cheeks and forehead. Arthur mounted up and told Mary Beth to trot out in front of him. He would pull up the rear. They went in a humble trot north then, eventually east around the top bend of O’Creagh’s Run, ducking their heads against the rain. The wind had since eased up, but the thunder was still rolling strong in the distance. Arthur reckoned it would be another several hours before the storm ran its full course through the sky.

“Boy, I bet you're glad you ran into me!” said Hamish, laughing and jovial. He was way up front. "This storm ain't kidding."

“We sure is," said Mary Beth.

"No doubt."

Mary Beth glanced back at Arthur then, like she was just reminding herself that he was there. He nodded, and she turned back facing front, shielding her face with her freckled forearm.

“What was you doing when they struck?" said Hamish now. His horse spooked a little. Another bolt of lightning flashed through the sky. "If you don't mind me asking."

"Arthur was just fishing," said Mary Beth. "I was picking carrots for our dinner when that disgusting man grabbed me and the whole thing started. Lost my damn basket in this hellstorm.”

Hamish chuckled. “Well, luckily, I don’t think those ingrates travel in packs bigger than three or four.”

“Too stupid for anything else,” called Arthur. "But it allows them to be quiet."

"Indeed," said Hamish.

They got to Hamish's cabin very soon after that. It was a modest structure, right near the edge of the lake, but very upright. He had a small stable where they were all able to tie up their horses out of the rain, and a couple stacks of dry hay for them to feed on. They made a run for it to the door, as if they were not already each soaked to the bone, and Hamish let them in first, followed behind and then closed the door and bolted it tight. Arthur and Mary Beth both stopped to look around and notice the humble scenery of the cabin. The kitchen was tidy, with a small display of Civil War paraphernalia hung up by the entrance, and there was a low fire in the hearth. They saw the loft, too, that Hamish had mentioned out in the woods. Right tucked up in the bent of the roof with a small ladder leading down, just past the kitchen. The air was dry and warm and a welcome commodity. Arthur and Mary Beth both looked at each other, each of them nodding, acknowledging their mutual sense of reassurance. 

Hamish entered the room and immediately removed his hat and jacket. He wore chaps that looked impervious to the rain, and he removed those as well. Arthur and Mary Beth were waiting for instructions. After giving them a long one-over, Hamish nodded his head as if having an internal conversation with himself, and then went to what appeared to be his bedroom, a small space cordoned off to the side, hidden behind a heavy curtain. “Looks like you two might need some new clothes, eh?” he said. He went to the armoire first, opened the cabinet doors and searched a bit until he landed upon a pair of linen slacks and a large blue shirt—also linen—with a button-up style in the front. He came back to the kitchen and handed the clothing to Arthur. “Now, I’m not as big as you, young man, but these is…pretty comfy on me. I reckon they might fit you yet.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure I do,” said the man, nonchalant. He waved Arthur off and went back to the bedroom. At that point, he seemed to have a thought, and then he stiffly got down to his knees. It seemed to take him a great deal of effort to do so. He picked up the lid on a great big hope chest. Inside were some books and photographs and folded stacks of pretty white clothing. From it, he drew what appeared to be a woman’s nightgown. He admired it for a second and then staggered to his feet, and he came back and gave the nightgown to Mary Beth.

She touched the fabric, smiled kindly up at the man. “This is lovely,” she said.

“Well, I had a wife once,” he said, scratching at his old, white beard. “Like every man should. She was about your size. She liked white. That should do, I reckon.”

“Thank you,” said Mary Beth, like she was taking in the story—the terrible romance of it all. This old man who kept his dead wife’s beautiful nightgowns, folded neatly into a memory box by the foot of his bed. “You’re very kind, sir. I’m sure it’ll fit just fine.”

He smiled, charmed by her as many tended to be—politely of course. He went past them then to the kitchen where he lit the stove and put a kettle on. “Please feel free to use the curtain, miss," he said to Mary Beth. 

She nodded, looked at Arthur.

“Go on,” he said.

So she did. She went into the little room and pulled the curtain closed behind her. Arthur sighed, deeply, surveying the little pile of clean clothing in his hand. “Thank you again, sir,” he said, “for your generosity.”

“Oh, enough thanking for one evening,” said Hamish. “I just done what any decent man would do. And besides, I am glad for the company. This storm is a right bitch."

Arthur smiled to himself. “It sure is.”

Hamish continued putting together that pot of tea then, and so Arthur began to undress in front of the fire. His clothes were truly stuck to his skin. The old man was right, in that the pants were a little short, but for the most part, the clothes fit just fine. The linen was worn and very soft. Arthur stacked his boots by the fire and Hamish showed him how he could hang his wet clothes on a little line strung up in front of the locked window. Arthur hung them all up and then joined Hamish back in the kitchen, where Hamish had taken to removing the prosthetic from his upper eg. Arthur had guessed that it was so—based on his gait and his difficulty with bending at the knees. Removing that prosthetic seemed to give the old man a considerable amount of relief. He watched him massage the carefully wrapped stump above where his knee had ought to be for a while and then lean back in the chair to close his eyes and breathe. He seemed tired by the night’s fateful wanderings, but also refreshed. Arthur waited patiently to see what would happen next.

When Mary Beth finally came out, Arthur showed her where she could hang up her skirts and her blouse and how she could dry her boots by the fire. They went to the kitchen and Hamish welcomed them to his table. The kettle on the stove was getting hotter and starting to hiss. Mary Beth offered to pour the tea as Hamish had settled in. Hamish was happy to oblige her and even directed her to top off all their cups with a healthy shot of Kentucky bourbon, which he kept bottled in a little cupboard by the floor. She poured the tea, and then she poured the booze. She served them each a cup and then sat down at the table with the men. Arthur watched as she held her face over the hot steam and breathed it in through her nose. Her hair was still very wet but she had taken it out of the braid, and it was drying now to long, scrunchy waves around her face and on her shoulders. He sipped his tea, looked at Hamish who was nursing his cup and very content.

“So,” he said, eventually, now that the night seemed settled. You could still hear the rain, pounding overhead. “What brings the two of you fine young people all the way out here to my neck of the woods?” he went on. "Just fishing and camping?"

Arthur glanced up toward the roof. “Hunting,” he said, and then he sipped his whiskey tea. “We was looking to hunt moose.”

“Well you come to the right spot, though farther north would be better. Where you hailing from?”

"South,” he said. “Near St. Denis, but that ain’t where we hail from originally.”

“Wanderers?” said Hamish, looking at Mary Beth.

She smiled. “Something like that.”

This satisfied him. He looked at Arthur, took a drink, and continued. “How long the two of you been married?” he said.

Arthur was confused at first, but then he glanced down at his hand. He had never taken the ring off. He closed his hand into a fist, opened it again. “Not long,” he said.

“Newlyweds?” said Hamish.

“Yes sir,” said Mary Beth, drinking. “This is our first time hunting together. Our first time in the woods.”

“Well you seem capable,” he said to her, and to Arthur. “To survive an ambush by the Murfree Brood. One of you must be a sharpshootin son of a bitch.”

Both Arthur and Mary Beth smiled at this. Mary Beth leaned forward and placed her hand on Hamish’s wrist, but only for a second. “That would be Arthur,” she said, real quiet, like a secret. “The truth is I’m no good with a gun.”

“Aw, don’t sell yourself short,” Arthur said. He took a long drink. “Mary Beth shot a turtle once. Dented it and everything.”

“Arthur!” she reached across the table and shoved him good. Arthur was amused by this and felt himself smirking. It was a smirk of the likes he had not smirked in some years. He was surprising himself.

They all sat, drinking after that, like they were waiting for a bell to ring or something.

“So you is a veteran of the war, I see?” said Arthur after a little while. He finished his tea, got up to pour himself a bit more. It was quite satisfying. “Is that how you lost your leg there?” He brought the kettle and the whiskey back around to top off the rest of them. Mary Beth declined the whiskey, but she took more tea. Hamish wanted a lot of whiskey in his.

Hamish nodded, scrubbing a hand through his beard. “Yes sir,” he said. "That old war. It took its toll, that's for sure."

“You seen battle,” said Mary Beth, eager, warming her hands to the mug. “That must’ve been something. Very dark times.”

“It was,” said Hamish. “But I ain’t complaining. You know how lucky I am, to get to live out here, in this—this preserved place of wide open wilderness? Pretty damn lucky. It’s all power lines now, everything I seen. Civilization. The corruption of man sticking it to nature with his…disease. I seen enough horrors for one lifetime. I ain’t buying in. No, ma'am."

“Nor should you,” said Mary Beth.

“We know the feeling,” said Arthur, “of being chased.”

“What do you do?” said Hamish to Arthur, straight up.

“I’m just a wanderer.” Arthur made no attempt at fooling. He took a drink. “Like you said, sir.”

Hamish smiled, turned to Mary Beth, full of humor. “You wander with this fool?”

Mary Beth blushed and laughed and drank from her cup as well. “Of course,” she said. “What else would I be doing? Working a sweatshop? Marrying a banker with a monocle? Ain’t really my style, Mr. Sinclair.”

Hamish was laughing now but seemed to understand this. “That there’s a good answer,” he said.

After a little while, and some more talking, the tea ran out, and the old man became sleepy and a little worse for the booze. It was getting late. The rain still fell outside in big whooshes against the rooftop. Arthur helped him up and back to his bed. Rubbing his eyes, the old man seemed weary but grateful. He seemed to have very much enjoyed their company, and their conversation. “Thank you, son,” he said, clapping a hand to Arthur's shoulder. “Promise you’ll stay through the morning. Have breakfast. You'll need your strength if you're going after moose.”

“Of course,” said Arthur.

“There’s a soft mat up in the loft,” he said, hauling onto his back and closing his eyes. “It ain’t much, like I said, but there’s a lamp, and room enough for two, I reckon.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Arthur. 

“You’re very welcome.” He was drifting, slow but hard. “Oh, and watch your head,” he said. “Low ceilings.”

Arthur smiled. “I will.”

“Very good.”

He was asleep after that, Hamish Sinclair, their humble savior. Passed out cold, breathing heavy and even with his head on the pillow.

When Arthur closed the curtain and returned to the kitchen, Mary Beth was cleaning up, rinsing their mugs in the basin. “Mary Beth let me do that,” he said.

“I don’t mind,” she said. “Plus it’s sort of like habit at this point.”

Arthur sighed. He placed his hands in his linen pockets. He was not tired. He was still wide awake from the encounter on the bluff. He felt terrible for all that had happened to them that night. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head at the floor. “What happened back there, Mary Beth. On that bluff. I messed up good. I shoulda seen them coming.”

She stopped what she was doing, turned around to look at him. “You saved us,” she said, disbelieving of his somber tone. “You couldn’t have prevented that from happening, Arthur.”

“Maybe not,” he said, scrubbing at the advancing scruff on his chin. He was looking right into her now, fixing her with his focus. “I still feel responsible.”

“You always feel responsible, Arthur,” she said. She wiped her hands off on a towel and went to him. “I know you. But you ain’t always responsible. It wasn’t your fault, and we’re okay now. Like you said before. A million times. While I was crying my damn eyes out like a total girl on that bluff.”

Arthur blushed a little. “Well, you are a girl, Mary Beth. To be fair of course.”

She socked him again, like before. He flinched and laughed. “Watch your tone, Arthur Morgan,” she said.

“I’m only kidding.”

“I know.”

“You done a good job on this trip," he went on. "Seriously. You saved my life that first night. We would both be plain dead by now if it weren't for you and that frying pan.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she said, smirking.

She finished up the dishes while Arthur stoked the fire. She washed their mugs and all the rest of the dirty dishes in the sink. She said it was the least she could do for such a kind man of the war.

“He seems a little lonely,” said Mary Beth, folding his kitchen linens into little squares. “But spritely. Anyway, I’m probably just reading too much into things. I tend to do that. I don't like men who is missing their wives.”

“He might be lonely,” said Arthur. "But it ain't too bad. I seen lonelier men living in the thick of the city." He truly meant this. "Don't worry."

"I'll try."

They went up the ladder after that. Mary Beth went first. Arthur followed. When he got up there and into that little loft, he could see what Hamish had been saying—it really was low ceilings. He could barely scoot on his knees. But the mat was big and soft, maybe stuffed with down feathers. There was an oil lamp and a stack of blankets, a couple pillows, and the roof over head was sealed very well with good craftsmanship. It felt a little like a nest of sorts. Arthur lit the lamp so that the space looked as warm as it felt.

“I don’t feel much like sleeping,” said Mary Beth after a minute. They were sitting on either side of the lamp, their legs folded up, facing each other. “I can’t seem to calm down.”

“Same here,” said Arthur, studying his hands. There was still mud caked into the crevices of his palms, in his fingernails.

“Wanna read?” she said. She had that little blue book again, in the big front pocket of her nightgown. It seemed she never parted with it.

“Sure,” said Arthur. “What is that book anyway?”

“It was Sean’s,” said Mary Beth.

“Sean’s?” said Arthur. “I didn’t think Sean could read.”

They heard a snore then, coming from Hamish, down below, behind the curtain. They both smiled.

“He couldn’t read," continued Mary Beth, smiling to herself. "Not really. But I was teaching him, a little, here and there. He wanted to keep it a secret. On account of his reputation as the gang’s cocky Irishman.”

Arthur laughed at this. “He was a good kid.”

“Yeah, he was," she said. She slid the book open, turned to a page marked with a pretty gold ribbon. “It’s not the easiest reading material for a beginner. Apparently though, it’s quite new. He said he picked it up in Blackwater.”

“Is it a novel?”

“Poetry,” she said. “W.B. Yeats.”

“I ain’t read no Yeats,” said Arthur, watching her turn through the delicate pages. “Keats maybe. I always liked him.”

“Keats?” she said, looking, real bright. “Why, you are a romantic, aren’t you?”

He smiled, a little giddy. “Maybe,” he said. “I like the odes. It was like…he was thankful for something. You don’t run into too many thankful men these days, it seems.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Mary Beth. "Who gave you the Keats?"

"Hosea," said Arthur. "When I was pretty young. Maybe twenty or so."

"Well, this is much different," she said. 

“Can I see it?" he said, holding out his hand.

"Sure." She gave him the book. It was small in his hands, real small. It had looked so much bigger in hers. He opened it to a random page, to a poem called  _Into the Twilight._ He began to read silently, but then Mary Beth asked which poem he was on and urged him to read it aloud.

“Aloud?” he said, a little nervous all of a sudden.

“Yeah,” she said. She grabbed both his wrists, encouraged him, and then hid her hands back in her lap. “Go on, Arthur. I want to hear.”

He gathered his courage. It was funny. He could shoot four men dead on a bluff in the middle of a wild thunderstorm inside a minute, but when it came to reading out loud, in front of Mary Beth, he became a boy again. Anyway, he rose to the challenge. He cleared his throat, squinted down at the words to make sure he got the rhythm right. Then, he began to read, going slow, his voice sounding deep and dusty in his own ears:   

 

> OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,
> 
> Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
> 
> Laugh heart again in the gray twilight,
> 
> Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
> 
>  
> 
> Your mother Eire is always young,
> 
> Dew ever shining and twilight gray;
> 
> Though hope fall from you and love decay,
> 
> Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
> 
>  
> 
> Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
> 
> For there the mystical brotherhood
> 
> Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
> 
> And river and stream work out their will;
> 
>  
> 
> And God stands winding His lonely horn,
> 
> And time and the world are ever in flight;
> 
> And love is less kind than the gray twilight,
> 
> And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn. 

When he finished, he sat to contemplate for a moment. He turned the page, and then he turned it back to examine the poem one more time. Then he closed the book, and he set it down on the blanket between them.

He looked up, and Mary Beth had grown solemn, staring at him, her face lit by the yellow lamp light. “That was real nice, Arthur,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said. “Ain't like I wrote it. Seems weary though.”

“How do you mean?”

He took a deep breath and opened the book again, right to the same poem, studying. “Seems like it’s about…morals, forcing in. Times changing, mixing everything up. It takes everything,” he said. “But it don’t take nature. That’s the brotherhood, I reckon. See? That’s the dew of the morn.”

He took one last look at the words, thought hard on it for a second. Then he closed the book again and gave it back to Mary Beth. She held it in her small hands, with the freckled knuckles. She seemed contemplative as she set it down once more. Then she smiled like she was embarrassed.

“What’s the matter?” he said, trying to catch her eyes.

“Nothing,” she said, sighing. “Only that I wish I did not feel and look so much like a wet rat right now—a pretty moment like this.”

Arthur was surprised, even confused by this. He sort of laughed at the sentiment. It was strange.

“What's funny?” she said. She looked up, finally.

He smiled. “You are."

"Why?"

"You couldn’t look like a wet rat if you tried,” he said. He just shrugged. He was being real. “Come on, Mary Beth. You know you’re a beautiful woman. Don’t lie about yourself that way.”

The rain was coming and coming still, a regular rhythm now, part of the scenery. Mary Beth did not know what to say. She was amused but also her heart was beating very hard in her chest, right out its delicate cage. Looking at him, he did not seem keyed up or like he was fooling around or even putting on a show. He just grinned his easy Arthur Morgan grin, like he was just telling truth. 

So she reached for him. That’s just what her instincts told her to do. Mary Beth tended to trust her instincts. They seemed to be all she had sometimes. She placed one of her palms on each of his weathered cheeks, feeling the scruff, the soft of his beard starting grow in, so many days in the wild. He had high cheekbones, Arthur. His bones were a little feathery on the whole, delicate, she thought, which was not apparent unless you studied him close. Because he was otherwise a big man and he seemed it in every way. But not in his bones. At first, she didn’t know if he would pull away from her or remove her touch. But he just seemed to be searching her eyes with his, trying to figure out what was going to happen next, same as she was.

He had saved her life how many times and yet it didn’t feel desperate, or unruly, she thought. It didn’t feel strange. It just felt normal. She touched her forehead to his, softly, felt him give a little, then she closed her eyes. He was hesitant. She could sense it. But then she felt his eyelashes glancing off her cheek as he closed his eyes, too. They breathed like that, just for a little while, taking comfort in one another. But soon, their faces hovered closer together, by nature, and she felt him then—responding. His hands, lightly at first, planted softly just above each one of her knees. They were not smooth. They were big, sure of themselves. She felt him exhale.

"Mary Beth," he said.

The gravel in his voice emboldened her. She made the move. She kissed him.

Waiting, seeing. It was everything. She didn't know what would happen. She felt his breath catch, just a little, his mouth soft on hers, but he was not caught off guard, and when she thought he might pull away, because he was Arthur Morgan, and that seemed so often to be his conservative nature—to pull away—she then felt one of his hands on her neck instead, a surprise, grazing her ear, pushing into her hair. It was sending a whole lot of electricity into her, his hand. This good knight. She was kissing him after all. He was still hesitant at first, but then he was very smooth, and she waited, patient, still tense, their mouths touching but only just until finally, he kissed her back, real slow, like he meant it, and then all of their muscles seemed to release at the exact same time. She felt herself moving into him. The kiss deepened naturally, but only just. It was not a reckless abandon type kiss. It was not the end of the world. It was just the two of them, tucked away in yet another kind stranger's home, existing.

When it all came to a close, they parted, looked at each other. Arthur felt warm and good, clear as windows all of a sudden. She tasted like whiskey. He lingered, his breathing shallow, his heart beating rapidly. He had made a choice, he realized, and now there he was, before he even knew what hit him, staring at this person who he did not want to leave. It was that simple. It was the truth he could not previously acknowledge, which is that it was fun, being with her, and easy, and terrifying all at once. And it hit him hard, what this meant, took hold of him in ways he could not have foreseen or designed. All it took was her heat, her skin, her safety, something good, not a fantasy or a fool's errand, just something real, pulling him downward by the chest until he felt like doing nothing but lying in the cool earth, peaceful, becoming a part of its roots and growing. 

Together, they could hear the crackling of the fire still from down below and the rain on the roof overhead. Arthur had tucked the damp hair behind her ear. Mary Beth's hands had fallen from his cheeks and to his wide, warm chest. All these things going on inside them, but between them, it was just quiet. They just studied one another, in the lamp light, beneath the fateful call of the storm, because that is just who they were when they were together. When times got safe. Studying. Whatever else there was or wasn't, whatever still remained to be seen, that is just what they did.


	9. The Polar Bear

He had let her kiss him. She didn’t know. It took all her breath and made her very weak. She had thought about kissing him a million times. Who hadn’t? Living in a camp full of unwashed cowboys, always grimacing. Going into town where the men were either perfumed and entitled or stinking of pig shit to high hell. Arthur was the cute one, his fair hair flipping out behind his ears, kind blue eyes with the crinkles, always with a flower in his hat, writing while sitting under a tupelo tree, smoking, chewing a reed. Chopping firewood for the camp. He lit her cigarettes, popped the caps off her beer bottles, gave her his hand, danced with her at the parties. It is easy to want to kiss this kind of boy.

But actually kissing him was much different. He wasn’t a boy. He was a man, and tender, like he knew it. Mary Beth was still a little young, and she didn’t quite get it yet, but the thing about a good man is, as he gets older, he gets softer. He just loses that bluster, the immediacy, that thing that once let him think he knew everything, that which guarded him from the world’s trials and tribulations. As a good man ages, he has less to prove, less petty errands to hang onto in the way of his pride. Sure that pride is still there and it’s tiresome, and it’s heavy. It’s harder to lift. But it’s not angry anymore. It just is. The underbelly to all this is that, by the time a man reaches Arthur’s age, while he is still open to the possibility of the future, many of the old sad things from his life and his past have already cemented themselves into the faraway basements of his heart and soul. There is no starting over, not really. They will always be there.

But Mary Beth was sage to this, at least a little, even if she didn’t know it. If living in a camp full of angry, unwashed cowboys had taught her anything, it was how to choose the good men from the bad, the lovers from the fighters, the intelligent from the simple. There were the men who knew themselves as hard men and that was all, and then the men who struggled to parse the ironies of their rough and gruff exteriors from the softness of their own desires. As far as she could tell, the good men of their camp were easy to locate. Charles, Hosea, and Arthur. They were good men. She didn’t know about John yet. She thought he was trying. After Jack disappeared he seemed to change and to quiet into his ways, and he began listening to Arthur. Dutch was lost. She was worried about how lost he had become, and she rightly did not know what to think of him—if he was a good man, it might’ve been buried by now. Lenny was still a boy, as was Kieran, and Sean, too. Sean had died before getting this chance to actualize. The other men of the camp were not necessarily bad. It’s just that they were not what her intuitive heart would have counted as good.

Mary Beth had talked to Sadie about this once, back at Clemens Point, after she’d gone into Rhodes with Arthur and come back, newly dressed and having killed several men. Sadie said to Mary Beth, “Arthur is a good man.” She was shining up her gun, determined. “I couldn’t’ve seen it before, with my head so deep in my grief for Jakey, but now I do. It is a pity he has ended up here, in this waste bin of existence with Dutch and the boys. He deserves more than this. He don’t see me like they do, like a burden. He sees me for what I am and for what I want to be, and for that, I will always be thankful.”

At the time, Mary Beth didn’t think much of it. She was desperately intimidated by Mrs. Sadie Adler. But afterward, she noticed how Sadie and Arthur were friends. And so Mary Beth would chat with her by the morning fire and have coffee sometimes, and she learned that Sadie, while a little scary, was actually very thoughtful, and then Mary Beth began to think about what she had said more carefully. Arthur had opened up to Mary Beth about his fears and trials so many times in that past year especially, particularly after that whole mess in Blackwater, when it seemed the course of their lives had changed forever. She began reaching out to him when he seemed in need of guidance. She noticed he did not open up to very many of the men or women—that included Sadie. He was concerned with maintaining the morale of the camp, and he could not do this if he was showing signs of inner conflict. She sometimes witnessed him and Charles, smoking together by the water, talking something through. Charles was similarly soft beneath his hardness, and he was very kind and protective of the women and also of himself. He carved wonderful animals out of pieces of wood and would give them to little Jack. She wondered if Arthur could carve shapes out of wood. She thought it was something he probably could do but just kept it to himself, a secret.

Now, he was looking at her, but then his eyes were dropping, a little. He was going into a place of thought. He still had his hand in her hair, his thumb tracing the curve of her ear, almost absentminded. He licked his lips and swallowed and then he closed his eyes. She became nervous now. She worried she had broke their friendship, a sin for which she could never forgive herself. And yet, he had kissed her back. It was two-sided, she thought. She had not kissed a man like this maybe ever, in a way that made her want. Boys, sure. And even then, it had been some years. But kissing Arthur made her feel different somehow, responsible and real.

“Arthur?” she said in a little while.

He looked back up, his eyes very soft. He was very vulnerable. “Yes, Mary Beth.”

“What are you thinking?” she said.

He held her hands then, cupped them inside both of his, held them tight. It took him a moment, to gather his thoughts. He cleared his throat. “I am not thinking much, Mary Beth. My brain seems to be malfunctioning at the moment.”

She smiled, and he smiled. “What are you feeling?” she said. This was the better question.

He looked up at her, and he touched her ear again, like he kept going back to it, playing with the hair there, how it tucked behind. Every time he did this, she kind of felt all the nerves in her body zap into existence at the same time. But everything about him was very grounded and settled in that moment. He was neither ecstatic nor distressed. “Like I want you,” he said eventually, very calm and deep, looking at her, then looking down at her hands. “I want you, and it’s railroading me.”

“How so?”

“Because it’s drawing to the surface all these…old wounds,” he said. “It’s hard to talk about. And once again, I am not sure how I should proceed.” Then, it was like he had a thought, he looked up, curious. “What do you want, Mary Beth? What do you see?”

She smiled. Unlike him, she did not feel unsure of how to proceed. “I see you, Arthur,” she said, tucking the hair behind his ears. He seemed comforted by this. “I ain’t a complicated girl. I’m glad I came with you on this trip. I want you, too. You’re a good man.”

He sighed, like he was afraid that was the thing she’d say. He gathered her hands again into his, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking down at their hands together, touching. “I wish I could just…be the thing that you need,” he said, coming apart a little. They’d tipped over some ledge, accidentally. She could feel them going real fast. “Want and need. They’re so different. I really wish, Mary Beth.”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“I ain’t—you don’t wanna be with me,” he said. “I can hear it in your voice. You think it’s something good. You think I’m something else. But you don’t wanna be with me.” He was shaking his head, and then he looked up at her finally. “I promise. I shouldn’t’ve—I shouldn’t’ve kissed you tonight. It don’t matter what I want.”

“Why?” she said. “I don’t understand why what you want don’t matter.”

“Because I will fail,” he said, still looking down at their hands. He had opened up her palms. He was drawing little shapes in her palm with his thumb, even as he said these things. “I’m a wanted man, Mary Beth. I’ll fail. I can’t protect you.”

“All you’ve ever done is protect me,” she said. “And I’m wanted, too, by the way. In at least three locals west of the Mississippi.”

He smiled at this. “I know.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I know.”

“If you could have exactly what you want, right now, what would you choose, Arthur?” she said. She picked up his face so she could look right at him, right into him. “What would it be?”

He seemed confused by the question, like no one had ever asked him what he wanted before. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Yes you do,” she said. “Right now. In this very moment, at Hamish Sinclair’s house in the middle of a proper thunderstorm. The old man is snoring downstairs, and you’re sitting here with me up in this loft, and we just got done with that poem, and we just kissed. Pretend like there’s nothing else. Nothing in the way. Nothing waiting. What would it be?”

He seemed to freeze. So did the whole world. It was very strange, like time casting inward and stopping all of a sudden, everything but the storm. The thunder picked up outside. The rain seemed to be getting stronger, too. You could hear the wind howling through the chimney. For a second she thought a tornado might rip right through the cabin, take them all away into the sky. She had not seen a tornado since her youth in Kansas. But she remembered that they were full of wrath and magnificent.

“Arthur?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“What’ll it be.”

He shook his head, very subtle, like he was dumbfounded. He placed both of his palms on her neck, held her gently behind her ears, searching with his eyes. “I still want you, Mary Beth. I ain’t lying. That ain't what this is.”

“Then take me,” she said, palming his cheeks again, very serious, drawing him. “Take me, Arthur. I want you to."

He blinked rapidly, shook out his head a little. “I can't,” he said.

“Why not?” she said.

He was incredulous. “Because I’ve made mistakes. In the past. Mistakes with women that I could not fix or rectify. I’ve hurt every woman who’s come into my life with my inability to be who she needed me to be. I won’t do that to you, too. I won’t get you pregnant and leave you to suffer my indecency alone. I won’t. I just won’t.”

She felt herself becoming frustrated now, with this. “But I know you,” she said, shaking her head. “You would never do that.”

“I have done that.”

“It ain’t the same. You told me yourself. That was more than ten years ago, and even still it wasn't like that. You know it. And I don’t need you to change, not unless you want to change. That’s not what this is about.”

“That’s always what it’s about, Mary Beth.”

“Well, I want to be with you,” she said, very matter of fact.

“No, you don’t,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what I want, Arthur Morgan. I ain't no child.”

His jaw firmed up. He nodded, resigned, looking like he’d been kicked in the stomach. “I’m sorry. I know.”

She withdrew her hands, hid them in her lap. He seemed to get the message. They weren’t touching anymore. She looked away. She felt like she might cry. Not for his rejection specifically, but because of all this stuff he was saying. She was lost for her words and didn’t wanna argue him no more. The night was full of drama. It had happened very fast. She tried to remind herself of this as she stared down at the elegant stitching of Hamish Sinclair’s late wife’s nightgown, and how it touched her skin so delicately. She closed her eyes then and tried not to be mad at Arthur Morgan.

He sighed. He was shaking his head. “I just—” He stopped himself. “Godammit. I am rightly screwing this up. That ain’t what I want.”

She still wouldn't look at him. She shook her head. She would not cry.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. "Mary Beth. Look at me."

So she did, feeling stupid. She waited on him. She said nothing, her body going limp like a ribbon. He grazed her chin with his thumb, held her face, gentle. He looked so serious, almost full of regret.

“I ain't saying no to you, Mary Beth," he said.

"Then what are you saying?"

"This is very...serious for me," he went on. "I feel a damn fool, but the truth is, I ain’t given myself to no woman in many years. I ain’t even considered—that just ain’t what I do. I am trying to be decent. I am trying to be honorable. I know I'm saying all the wrong things. That seems to be what I do, invariably, but I do not want to hurt you, Mary Beth. That is the last thing I want."

She looked at him. He had so much inside, so much he was carrying around. She didn’t feel sorry for him. Why would she? She looked up to him and she remembered who he was and who she was. She sighed “I understand,” she said, real quiet. In some way, she knew he was right. Moving too fast—that wasn’t the answer to any of their predicaments. Still, it stung a little.

“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “But you don’t have to, Mary Beth. Understand, I mean. You can just say no.”

“Be quiet, Arthur,” she said. It startled him, but in a good way. “I know I can. But I can also wait a little. You don’t need to explain no more right now. It was a bad night. We can sleep on it."

"That sounds good," he said.

"But when you feel like it, remember I'm still your friend. I'm always here to listen. No matter what.”

He smiled at this, seeming crushed by her reassurance. “Let’s go to sleep,” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

She turned the lamp down, left it on just a little. She didn’t want the loft to be full dark. The rain was big and scary. She realized then she was still a little shook from the encounter on the bluff, and with the lights out it rushed to the surface. She kept hearing things. She curled toward him beneath the heavy linen covers. He pushed the hair off her face and smoothed it down the back of her head, and then he just held her, no questions, very strong. She was glad. It was an acknowledgement, no matter how subtle. He wasn’t pretending like they’d never kissed, or like his feelings weren’t real. And her nerves and everything calmed, and she felt his muscles calming around her, which told her that it was all okay. She closed her eyes sometime after he closed his. She fell asleep to his big, even breaths, making her feel safe from harm under the rain.

 

That night, Arthur had another dream. But it was different this time. Instead of being inside the polar bear, he was in the woods, and he was being hunted. He thought it was the polar bear, but he did not think a polar bear had such lengths of intelligence to hunt him with such a vision of perfection. Everywhere he went to hide, either the ground was sinking underneath him, or the sky was trying to suck him into its endless void. He knew nothing of his life other the fact the was trying to get back to somebody. Somebody was waiting for him. That was all. And it was a gnawing anxiety that made his stomach hurt, and his body burn. Where the hell was he?

He woke up with a start. He sat straight up. He looked around. Mary Beth was asleep beside him, hard asleep, breathing deeply. He looked at her and  then he dropped his face into his hands, because he very much wanted to touch her, just her hair again, put it off her cheeks, go back to holding her like it was all fine. She slept so peacefully. He rubbed his eyes with vigor. His heart was still beating hard. He tried to get up but bumped his head on the ceiling which jerked him out of his half-sleeping confusion and set him right. He swore under his breath and scrubbed the place on his skull where he’d bumped it on the hard wood. Outside, it was still raining, he could hear. But it was calm. The storm had past, and now it was just showers, just water falling from the sky in a steady flow. He exhaled and decided he was thirsty. He climbed past Mary Beth and down the ladder to the kitchen. He turned up the lamp a little bit on the kitchen table, but the hearth was good light down here. He poured a bit of water from a pitcher on the counter into one of the tin mugs Mary Beth had washed in the basin. He sat down at the table and drank the whole cup of water. Then he poured another cup of water, took a long drink and nursed the rest. His face was hanging in his palm. He felt very old, very tired. He was thinking about the dream, about her. His mind was like bees buzzing. His head hurt.

There was stirring then, from behind Hamish’s curtain. Arthur looked up. Hamish himself came out, rubbing his own eyes, hobbling against a sturdy cane. He made eye contact with Arthur and then gave him a canny look, like he was unsurprised. He pushed over to the table, hauled out one of the chairs, and sat down. Then, he gestured toward the basin and let the cane lean against the table top. “Would you grab me one of them mugs?” he said. “I’m properly parched this fine evening.”

“Sure,” said Arthur. He reached without standing, picked up one of the tin mugs off the counter and then set it in front of Hamish.

Hamish poured it full of water, took a drink. Then he sighed and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Goddam liquor,” he said.

“I know the feeling,” said Arthur.

“Sounds like the storm’s letting up,” said Hamish, looking up at the ceiling now. “Good news.”

“Yes it is.”

Hamish drank, scrubbed at his beard. Then he gave Arthur a long look, prying into him a little. “Trouble sleeping?” he said. “I hope the loft ain’t too uncomfortable. I ain’t been up there but to dust in some years.”

“The loft is fine,” said Arthur. 

“What’s on your mind?”

Arthur sighed, holding his mug with two hands. “Mary Beth,” he said. He took a drink.

“What’s the problem?”

“She’s—” Arthur hesitated, glanced up to the loft. There was no disturbance. “She’s got some...expectations for me. Took me on a run for my money tonight. I’m used to expectations. But not like hers.”

“What sorts of expectations are you used to?” said Hamish.

“The stressful kind,” said Arthur, smiling in spite of himself. “Do this, do that. And mostly just—to be something I’m not. If that makes sense.”

“Oh, it does.”

“Only I don’t know that I knew too much about what I was before these last few months, and now this hunting trip, with her,” Arthur continued. “It's confusing. Now, I just—she’s up there. Asleep. We’s on uncertain terms. I ain’t seeing things too clear, Hamish. I fear that I am ruining everything.”

Hamish straightened up in his chair, flung one of his arms around the back and sort of hung there. He was thinking something over deep. He drank and set his cup down and continued to scrub at his beard thoughtfully. “What does Mary Beth expect of you?” he said. “Why are her expectations so different?”

“Because,” said Arthur. “She expects me to be…me, I guess. Or something like that. I never had no problems opening up to her. But opening up to myself, that is a whole new journey of indecision. I ain’t—I ain’t loved a woman in a long time. Last time I did, it didn’t work out. Her daddy hated me. Called me a thief, and I am a thief, but he was a whoring, drinking son of a bitch. Gambled away their money, their safety. He called me a thief.” Arthur laughed to himself. “Anyway, she loved me. I loved her. But it was always—she wanted me to change. And maybe I want to change. Maybe so. But the terms she provided, they were impossible. And we fell apart. I left. She married another man. Anyway. What I’m saying is, Mary Beth ain’t like that. She’s a thief, too, if you can believe it. Only of course, that don’t matter. It don’t matter what she is. She just…is.” He took a deep breath. “I’m lost,” he said. “I don’t know how to be me, for her. Is there anything gotdam stupider than that? A man who don’t know who he is, who only knows how to be put upon by the things he most certainly is not.” He finished his water. He set down the cup and folded his hands on the table.

Hamish had been listening very closely. He was nodding the whole time, and he was still nodding now, taking it all in. He spoke slow now, and with great decision in his voice. “It sounds like you’ve had some difficult times,” he said, “with women.”

“Yes. I have,” he said. “I keep—failing to be the thing they need me to be. They want me. I’m strong. I’m brave. I know my way around a gun. Around the wilderness. But what they need—I can’t provide.”

“What does Mary Beth need?” said Hamish.

Arthur thought on this. He looked down at his knuckles as he so often did because they were complex weavings of past bloodshed. He thought. He thought some more. He had not thought of this. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Well, it sounds like she just needs you,” said Hamish. “Like she needs you to be…whoever you are, or whoever you want to be. You know that ain't unusual, right? You know that’s what love is. It’s needing a person for who they are. Not for what they can do for you, or for how they look, or what material life and provisions they can provide. She followed you here. It sounds like she’s followed you for a while now. Has she ever complained about the life you’ve given her?”

“No,” said Arthur, decisive. “Never.”

“Then what’s the problem?” said Hamish.

Arthur felt his throat tightening, his face feeling hot. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I do,” said Hamish.

“Then what is it?”

“The problem is, there ain’t no problem. For once, there ain’t no problem, and you’re used to solving problems, I reckon, and so now you don’t know what to do. You’re…lost.” He finished his water, poured another cup. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Morgan. If fighting in that god forsaken war taught me anything, it’s that life is short, and it’s mean. It’s ugly business. And if you find someone who you like spending your time with, and who likes spending their time with you, you ought to keep them as close as possible, for as long as possible. It’s the only thing makes life worth living. It don’t matter who they are, what they done. My wife died, and now I am alone, but I am not afraid, because I found someone I truly needed, and I knew it, and I kept her as close as possible for as long as possible. The last thing you want, Mr. Morgan, is to wake up one day, open your door, and find you’ve aged twenty years, and to look around and see no one dear to you. Because then it’s just the long, ugly earth, opening up. One day it’ll swallow you. That part is inevitable. Will you go down knowing you found the thing that you want, that you need most in life, and you held onto it with pride? Or will you go down in regret.” He lit a cigarette from his front pocket. Then, he slid one across the table to Arthur, set down a single match, and smoked. “Those are your only options, Mr. Morgan,” he said, very sure of himself. “Which will you choose?”


	10. Deer Cottage, Pt. 1

Arthur woke up the next morning to sounds of joy, and to the smell of food. Something good. After his conversation with Hamish the night before, he had stumbled up like a right idiot to that loft and retook his heavy place by Mary Beth’s side. She had not woken once, barely even stirred without him, like the drama of the event with the Murfee Brood had wiped her out in ways she didn’t realize. For a while before he was able to fall back asleep, he kept glancing at her, watching her chest rising and falling in the dim lamp light, trying to picture his life in some distant but not altogether impossible scenario in which he was a husband, and a father, and something better and calmer than the man he was now. Isn't that what he was supposed to be? Part of him had always thought so. His body ached. He longed to start over. But when had there ever been a chance to do that? His life had railroaded him straight into this place of volatility quite outside his control. He had been navigating its paths of fluctuating morality since he was a goddam teenager, never privileged in such a way that he could recall the notion of home, or what home meant, or how to make one. Instinctually, he knew what it meant. But on the surface of things, he felt very lost. A true wanderer.              

He heard Mary Beth’s voice down in the kitchen. He sat up, leaned over the edge of the loft to see what was going on. Hamish was sitting at the table, pouring coffee while Mary Beth was frying bacon in a pan on the stove. They were laughing about something. When Hamish noticed him awake he waved a hand and said, “Arthur, son. Come on down.”              

And when she heard mention of his name, Mary Beth turned around, dressed and with her hair braided loosely down her back. It was tied at the bottom with a slight pink ribbon. She looked up at him and smiled, reminding him a little of a clean window. She said, “It’s about time. Come on. Hamish has bacon and eggs.”              

Arthur climbed down the ladder, feeling underdressed. His hair felt unruly and he tried running a hand through it but he needed a comb, or a brush. It was getting long now, past his ears, touching his neck. Outside, it was sunny, no clouds, and the rain was gone, and it was birds singing. The shutters and the glass windows were thrown open. Mary Beth put down the spatula. She greeted him kindly, got on her tip-toes, kissed him on the jaw bone so that he blushed.               

“Good morning,” he said, his voice like a whole bunch of gravel in his own ears. “What time is it?”              

“About nine,” said Mary Beth, returning to her spatula. “You want some coffee?”              

“Sure. I’ll get it.”              

She went back to her flipping.              

Arthur sat down at the table, across from Hamish. It was the exact same arrangement as the night before. There was a mug there waiting for him. He poured the coffee. It was hot and strong. He took a sip which flooded his insides with warmth and relief. Hamish was staring at him with a kind of knowing intensity. “What is it?” said Arthur, thinking there was something wrong with his face.              

Hamish took a sip of his coffee, lowered his voice. “Everything okay?” he said.               

Arthur scratched at the back of his head. He thought his hair must be sticking up at all angles. He was grateful for Hamish, and for their conversation. He felt about as screwed up as ever but he was still thankful. “Fine,” he said. “Thank you, Hamish.”              

“Anytime.” Then Hamish turned to Mary Beth. He puffed up. He said, “Why don’t you tell young Arthur here what we did this morning, Miss Mary Beth.”              

“What you did?” said Arthur. “How long y’all been awake?”              

“Couple a hours,” said Mary Beth over the loud crackling of the bacon.               

“Well, go on,” he said. “Tell me. What’d you do?”              

She turned around, looking very pleased with herself. She wiped her hands on her yellow apron, which was too big, and probably belonged to Hamish himself. “I caught a fish,” she said.              

Arthur smiled, huge. He slapped his hand down on the table. He felt immense pride. “Very good,” he said. “What kind of fish?”              

“Just a little trout,” she said. “I threw it back. It wasn’t big enough to feed more than just me.”              

“She did it all on her own,” said Hamish. “I provided only the bait. It was impressive. Looked like she’d been taught well.”              

“Well I wish I could’ve seen that,” said Arthur.               

“I’ll try again,” she said. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll catch something bigger next time.” She turned back to the bacon, which had finished. She removed the bacon from the pan with a fork and let it settle on a big plate lined with a clean white napkin. Then, she put the plate down on the table, and she began frying up some eggs right in the bacon grease.              

They all ate well. Arthur asked Mary Beth to recount how she had made the catch. She told the story in a lively fashion. When they finished, Hamish made more coffee, and then went outside to feed the horses. While he was gone, Arthur and Mary Beth sat at the table, looking at their empty plates. Mary Beth stirred a half a sugar cube into her coffee. She had her chin resting in her hands. She looked a little anxious, but ordinarily dreamy.               

Arthur waited to see if she would speak first. When she did not, he cleared his throat. “How you feeling today?” he said. “You all right?”              

“I’m fine,” she said, looking up. “I slept well. I feel…good this morning.”              

“Yeah, me, too,” said Arthur. He brought the mug to his lips.               

“You know, Hamish told me about a cottage, in the Roanoke Valley," she said. "He says he goes there, keeps it up from time to time when he hunts. It’s been abandoned a while.”              

“Oh yeah?” said Arthur.              

“He said it would be a good place to stay, when we’s hunting moose. He said the Murfree Brood, they don’t bother you unless you’re camped out in the open.”              

“Well, that is true,” said Arthur, looking at his hands. “They may be bold, but they’re primitive. They like easy pickins, and I’ve killed enough of them by now. I reckon that if we stay sharp and out of their way, we’ll be fine.”              

She nodded, seeming surprised somehow. She glanced down into her coffee, which she had not touched since she’d added that sugar. “Sounds good,” she said.              

Arthur got a little worried then. She didn’t seem right all of a sudden. “What’s wrong?” he said.               

“Nothin,” she said.              

“Something’s wrong,” he said, leaning with his elbows on the table, trying to catch her eyes. He spoke softly, like a secret. “I’m sorry, again. Mary Beth. I ain’t going nowhere. I know there’s…something up in the air. Between us.”              

“Shh,” she said, getting bashful. She smiled now. “I ain’t fretting, Arthur. Not over you at least.” She looked up. “You keep forgetting that I know you. Probably better than you know you. So, no. I ain’t fretting.” She finally took a drink of that coffee. “Things ain’t solved, but they’re fine.”              

It was almost amusing. He stared right at her. She was always funny, and she was always right. “Then what’s the matter?” he said.              

“I just thought—I thought maybe you’d wanna call it off, that’s all. So I wasn’t getting my hopes up.”              

“Call off what?” said Arthur. “The hunt?”              

“Yeah,” she said. “I know you don’t like takin unnecessary risks. And after last night, I thought you’d wanna call it off.”              

“Do you wanna call it off?” he said. “Because if you do, just say so. We can ride back west, maybe go to Valentine. There’s good hunting out that way, too.”              

“No,” she said decisively. “We came all the way here. We gotta finish our quest, Arthur.”              

Arthur smiled at this. They were staring at each other. “Good,” he said. “That sounds good.” He wrapped his hands around the coffee mug. It was cooling. He felt both relief and also a quiet excitement for the coming day. “There’s one caveat though,” he went on. He took a long drink.              

“Yeah?”              

“I just want you to know that I fully expect you to pitch in from now on, Mary Beth.” He finished the coffee. Set down the mug. “With providing our supper, I mean. Now that you can fish and all, it’s only right.”              

She laughed. She was surprised. She got up to shove him in the shoulder. She’d had to reach over the table and nearly knocked over her mug doing so. “You love to tease me, don’t you, Arthur Morgan?”              

He was just smirking down into his empty cup. He hadn’t thought about it. But it was probably true. She sort of did know him better than he knew himself.              

When Hamish got back, they cleaned up the kitchen, and Arthur got dressed, and then they all rode back to Arthur and Mary Beth’s dilapidated camp on the other side of the lake to see what they could salvage. It wasn’t much they’d left behind, but some of their things seemed to be gone forever. Arthur’s cooking gear was lost, and the tent, though intact, was mostly unusable by now. Luckily, they had not rolled out their bedrolls yet, and they were damp, but still safely stowed aboard the horses. Arthur was pissed about the tent, as he’d had it on him for some years, but Mary Beth said it would be okay. “We’ll get a new one.” She touched his arm. Hamish happened to have a spare that he lent them, and he also had an extra cooking spit and also a pan and even a coffee percolator that he was willing to part with. Back at the house, he helped them pack up their horses and as he hauled over that new tent he made sure that Mary Beth was out of earshot, and then he put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and made eye contact, very strong.              

“You’re a good man,” he said, real straightforward. "Particularly if she is any indication of your character. Mary Beth is a terrific girl, and she sure has eyes for you."         

Arthur was biting on the inside of his cheeks. It's like he wouldn't allow himself to absorb the sentiment. “Hamish, thank you, but you don't know me—and you’ve don’t enough for me already.”      

“No,” Hamish corrected him. “I do have do, and I will. Look, I don’t just say that to any idiot I come across in a thunderstorm. There's something good in you. I can tell. Whatever you done wrong in your life that you feel is haunting you, it might never leave, but you should not be afraid of moving forward without it. You hear me? Leave the past in the dust, Mr. Morgan.”        

Arthur blinked, several times. He felt he might choke out from such forward wisdom. It had been a while since he’d heard any wisdom, not that he could rightly use for himself, what with Hosea and Dutch being consumed in their plans to escape the continent and all. He looked away and couldn’t lift his eyes from the distant waters on the lake, as they felt very heavy. He bit back on something real hard, some far away feelings of emotion, and he felt his jaw clenching and nodded with a practiced stoicism of which he sometimes felt he was losing control. He patted the old man’s hand once, a form of gratitude. He said, “Thank you, Hamish. Again.”              

“Don’t mention it.”              

Hamish removed his hand from Arthur’s shoulder and glanced back. They both watched Mary Beth as she brushed her pretty horse. Then she fed it an apple and spoke to it in hushed tones. “Did she tell you about Deer Cottage?” said Hamish.              

“Yes,” said Arthur, coming back to his memory. “She did. You’re sure it’s safe?”              

“I was just there a week ago,” he said. “It’s safe, has locks on the doors, and I keep the flower garden planted so nobody gets too close. Hunters and wanderers, they get to thinking it’s full time occupied. Of course, take your regular precautions, but it’s such a lonely country up there, I reckon you shouldn’t run into any squatters.”              

“Sounds good then,” said Arthur. "I think we’ll be okay.”              

“So do I. Miss Mary Beth already has the key.”              

Arthur handed Hamish his map then, and a pencil. Hamish marked the location of the cottage as just in the thick of Roanoke Ridge. Arthur scratched at the scruff on his face, felt feral. He had his hat on his head, the old hat he always wore fixed up with a careful arrangement of cardinal feathers. He watched Hamish say goodbye to Mary Beth, and Mary Beth promised him that they would be back again soon.               

“Now that we know you’re up here, it’ll be hard to stay away,” she said.              

“Don’t go doing me any favors,” said Hamish. He glanced back at Arthur. “But I’m always game for some good fishing, or hunting, if you’re in the area.”              

“You can count on it,” said Arthur.               

They said their goodbyes, mounted their horses, and headed east. It was not a far ride to Deer Cottage, but it would take most of the day. Arthur wanted to stick to the thoroughfares and avoid paths that might verge too near on the woods. Granted, it was almost all woods up there, creepy things on all sides, but he’d been up in Roanoke enough times during his own exploration that he understood the atmosphere, and if Hamish said this place was okay, he was trusting. Mary Beth rode with confidence by his side, and behind him on the narrow stretches. At one point, they stopped because there was a man, strung up by his neck from a tree, just off to the side of the road. Mary Beth was very distraught over this. She couldn’t stop looking. She wanted to cut him down and give him a burial.              

“Who would do something so awful?” she said.              

Arthur looked up along with her. Then he looked right at her, her many freckles. “It’s a trap,” he said. “We need to get moving.”              

“A trap?”              

The horses shifted. “Night folk,” he said calmly, patting Sarah behind the ears. “Just more animals walking upright, I promise you. Come on, Mary Beth.”              

She sighed, followed. They trotted forward. Arthur looked around for signs of ambush but he saw nothing. No traces of man. Sometimes, these things were traps, he thought. Sometimes, they just were.               

Everything was quiet after that. The hills got steeper around the valley and the ledges long, but it was so green up here. So filled with the sad and lovely blues of the forest and the big river. There were black bears and the occasional cougar. But the animals were a ways off the roads and rarely got too close but to spook the horses from afar. Sometimes, Arthur felt this place was haunted, so filled with ghosts, it’s like the trees were breathing. Once, he’d been up here late at night and he could swear he’d heard voices, strange ones. By god he assumed it was his imagination. But being back, he could not kick the instinct. Mary Beth, though, she was taking in the terrain with her wide-eyed excitement. She had a way of grounding the experience as something new. It wasn’t ghosts, or if it was, who’s to say they were agents of evil? Even that hanging man from a tall, tall tree seemed less grisly with her looking at it. Arthur realized so much of this was just about having company. _Her_ company, and he was thinking again now about how much time he spent alone, and how that can spoil a man, surely if he ain’t got nothing to look forward to. He just liked her being there. It made him feel a little safer than before, a point which he was coming ever closer to acknowledging, as a man.


	11. Deer Cottage, Pt. 2

They got to the cottage in the early evening. It was good timing, as dark hadn’t fallen and so there was time to drum up and gather their supper. Arthur didn’t want them to be traveling or hunting after dark, and Mary Beth didn’t either. It was just too much risk after what they’d been through the night before. Their plans were to stay in the cottage that night, head north to hunt early in the morning, and then be back to the cottage by evening once more. They had no more plans to sleep in the tent outside, not until they left these more remote parts of the land, heading back to Shady Belle.

Deer Cottage was just as Hamish described it. Modest but clean, with a little garden of lavender and what looked like moss roses. There was some thyme growing around, too, and the moment they got there, Mary Beth began to pick a bunch and gather it into her skirts, and then she found a basket sitting by the green door and dropped it in, along with a selection of poppies and apple blossoms and lavender, too. Arthur fed the horses and made sure they were watered and then together they went inside.

It was small, one room, but it had a very nice and open look about it. The fireplace was clean, with wood chopped and ready, and there was a full kitchen with a basin and a stove and a bed and a table with two chairs. Nothing grisly about it, nothing unsightly or out of order. Hamish was a tender man, it seemed, when it came to keeping his spaces. There were even extra pillows and blankets in the armoire by the door. He noticed, too, there was a gramophone. A real one. It looked dusty and he didn’t know if it was working, but there it was, a fancy novelty item, sitting there by the end of the bed, on the floor.

“This is so quaint,” said Mary Beth, happy. She put the basket of flowers on the table. Then, she went through the cupboards till she found an empty pitcher. “We need water,” she said.

“I saw a working well out back,” said Arthur. “I’ll get it. I’ll see if I can’t shoot something for us to eat as well.”

“Be safe.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling.

The cottage was up a narrow path off the valley road. He took his rifle off of Sarah and his shotgun, too. He didn’t have to go very far. He found a bunch of whitetail grazing in a patch of open grass, the sunlight spreading through like gold. With patience, he honed in on a small doe, took it down in the crosshairs, watched the rest of them scatter, along with several birds. He hauled the deer back to the cottage, flung over his shoulder, tossed it on the ground, real crude, to skin and carve it up. He wasn’t Mr. Pearson, but he could get the job done okay. It was a big score, a nice pelt, and a lot of the meat he salted and wrapped, preserving for the way home. He was bringing in a couple fresh cuts for their dinner now, a big bucket of well water, and some wild carrots, too, which he had found growing along the path back up to the cottage.

When he got back inside, Mary Beth gasped. “Arthur,” she said. “You’re up to your eyeballs in gore."

He looked at his hands, his sleeves, quite bloodied. “You're right,” he said. Then he set down the fresh cuts of meat, the water, and the carrots. “Guess I should wash up.”

“What did you get?” she said.

“Whitetail,” he said. “A good quantity. We’ll have some for tomorrow and the way home as well.”

“Good job, Arthur,” she said, smiling. “I mean it.” She had cleaned up the kitchen, and it looked far less dusty than before. She then poured most of the water from the bucket into the basin, and then the remainder into the tea kettle on the stove. Then, she handed the bucket back to Arthur.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

She watched him, very courteous. He tipped his hat to her and then went out the door to the advancing twilight. She saw him fill the bucket with more water from the well, then he proceeded to splash it over his arms and his face, through his hair till the blood was gone. He removed his shirt, went over to Sarah, found a different one, folded up real tight inside the saddlebag. This one was white. He took a quick look at his stitches, and then he buttoned up the shirt and replaced his suspenders. All of this Arthur did having no idea how she watched him. She felt quietly rebellious. She hadn’t meant to spy. But he was right there, so close, going through with his intimate and masculine routine. He dumped the bucket, filled it up with clean water. Then, he was heading back to the cottage.

She busied herself at the basin, washing some dishes she had found in one of the cupboards. She had also started the burner on the stove for frying up the meat and the carrots. She was touched that he had thought to bring in carrots. It was like he remembered her unfinished business from the night before and made it whole, and he said not one word about it.

He got in and closed the door behind him. He held out his hands, showed her his clean face and collar. “Better?” he said.

“Less bloody, that’s for sure,” she said. “I thought I’d make up dinner now.”

“I’ll, uh, start a fire,” he said, gesturing to the mantle.

“Sounds good.”

Things had changed a little, between the two of them that day. They were more cordial somehow. They had known each other for years, but now it was like that kiss had sealed them up tight, but it also removed them into some new and foreign territory. Neither was entirely clear on how to navigate it yet, but there they were.

After he got the fire going, Arthur began going through the flowers Mary Beth had brought in from Hamish’s garden outside. He chopped some of the thyme for her with the hunting knife from his belt. He set the chopped thyme in a mortar and set it on the counter, beside the stove. She thanked him. He then went about pouring some of the fresh water from the well into that glass pitcher, and then he found an empty coffee can in the pantry. He blew out the dust and put just a couple inches of water in the bottom, and then he put Mary Beth’s assortment of gathered flowers inside. He set it on the table, as he knew she had intended, and he admired its pretty simplicity. It made the cottage feel a little more like a home.

“You know,” said Arthur, leaning now, watching Mary Beth cook. The smell of the meat was filling the air. It was very comforting, making him feel sentimental. He did not have a problem feeling sentimental in front of Mary Beth. He never had. “My ma used to bring home wildflowers like that. In a basket and everything. This reminds me.”

This made Mary Beth blush. “That’s real nice.” She looked at him then, pushing the loose hairs off her face as she stood by the stove. “Where were you born, Arthur?”

Arthur thought on it, went and sat down at the kitchen table, folded his hands in front of him. “I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “I think whereabouts of southern Nebraska. But we took off on the Oregon Trail when I was barely old enough to speak.”

“Oh my,” said Mary Beth. “That must’ve been hard.”

“On my ma, sure,” said Arthur. “I don’t remember much. If anything at all.”

“So up in Oregon, that’s where she died?” said Mary Beth.

“Yeah,” he said, looking down at his clean hands. “She got sick.”

“What sort?”

“I don’t recall,” said Arthur. “A fever, maybe. My pa took me east after that, into Idaho, then Montana where we lived for a long time. He was a hustler, mostly card games, but he robbed folks as well, got busted one night when I was maybe ten years old. We went running into Wyoming, where he was killed, eventually. South Pass City. Pulling a bank job he was ill-prepared to undertake.”

“Did he run with a gang?”

“No,” said Arthur. “Perhaps that was part of his many failures. He did not get on well with others.”

She turned to face him then. The food was almost finished. She leaned against the counter, like she was thinking real hard. “South Pass City,” she said. “Is that where you was found by Dutch?”

Arthur smiled. It wasn’t fine times, looking back. But it didn’t hurt too bad. And her standing there, listening, it made him feel like sharing. “No,” he said. “No. I wandered on my own a while. Maybe two, almost three years. Robbing homesteads mostly to stay alive. I worked at a ranch for about one of them years. That’s where I learned breaking horses. I left there, and then headed back west, to the Tetons, in a place called Jackson, that’s where Dutch found me, working tables at the saloons. He saved me from getting my ass almost beat to death. I was barely fourteen.”

“Working tables?” she said. The meat was done. She checked it a little and then turned off the stove and took the pan off the burner, wearing a green oven mit. “What’s that?”

“Cheating cards, mostly,” said Arthur. He was slouching in the chair now. He’d taken off his hat, hung it on the back of his chair. “I was a good con artist because I was so young. No one suspected a kid to know how to cheat successfully at Blackjack.”

“Cheating cards, you learnt that from your daddy?”

He nodded. “My pa was a poor outlaw and a piece of shit but he wasn’t none too stupid with numbers. He could hold a lot of them in his head at once, and it turned out I could, too. He taught me when I was...nine or ten. I got some sleight of hand I’d use as well. Things I’d picked up over time. No one ever caught me, not right up till the very end.”

This seemed to both amuse and impress Mary Beth very much. She stood over the smoking pan. “I didn’t know you could do all that, Arthur.”

Arthur smirked. “I don’t do it much no more,” he said. “Takes the fun out of gambling. And if you get caught, well, you get killed. I’ll do it to John sometimes just to piss him off, but never in the saloons.”

Mary Beth laughed. “Oh, John,” she said. “He’s kind of sensitive, ain’t he?”

“In certain ways,” said Arthur. “Sure.”

He got up then, instinctually, to get the clean plates off the counter. He brought them over to the table, along with a couple of forks and knives. Mary Beth followed him over, served the venison and the pan-fried carrots. Arthur poured them each a big glass of water, and then together they sat down at the table to eat. The food was good. They spoke in an idle fashion. They felt civilized and grateful as humans in the world.

When they finished, it was full dark. Arthur peaked through the window, picked up his shotgun, which was leaning against the door frame. Mary Beth was clearing the plates and asked him what he was doing.

“I’m gonna just take a quick look around the perimeter here,” he said, looking back at her from the window pane. “I’m sure everything’s fine, but it would just make me feel better to know exactly what’s out there and what things sound like, so if anything changes, I’ll know.”

Mary Beth stopped very cold, holding a plate in each hand. She seemed surprised. “It’s so dark out,” she said. 

He sighed. He had half-predicted her concern. “Nothing’s gonna get the jump on me, Mary Beth. I promise. I know what I’m doing.”

“I know you do. It’s just—it’s not just men could be out there,” she said. “There’s animals and things.”

“I know. But I been in these parts many times. I won’t be gone but ten minutes. I promise. I need to take this precaution, Mary Beth. Please understand.”

She still did not move, but she did understand. She nodded, swallowed, dry. She strained a smile. “Just be careful,” she said.

He nodded, trying to reassure her. He was not afraid. She didn’t need to be afraid either. “I always am,” he said. “Lock the door behind me. I’ll be back soon.”

She obeyed. He put on his hat. She went with him to the door, and he went out of the door, then she closed it and turned the bolt and pulled the chain. She heard his heavy boots on the step and then soft in the grass, and she heard him load the shotgun and cock it, ready to shoot.

Mary Beth waited very impatiently after that. She bit her nails. She wondered stupidly at first about why it was he couldn't bring the key, and why instead she had to lock the door behind him. But she knew. It was so that in case someone got him, they couldn't find the key in his pocket, which might lead them back to the cottage. And back to her. He was locked away into the outside world and its myriad of threats and deadly agents just to protect her. She closed her eyes to the possibility.

Mary Beth was used to sleeping outside and noises and enemies everywhere. She was used to men and even women like Karen and Sadie and Miss Grimshaw doing the perimeter walks at night with their big guns back at camp. She never felt afraid at camp. She liked to see the good in their situation. She liked feeling safe. Before now, she trusted that Arthur was a superhuman when it came to the likes of violence, like so many of the other men of the gang. They were impervious. They went out, they shot things, they worked mean angles. They robbed banks and coaches with armed guards. They brought entire trains to their knees. These were serious men of their serious trade. When Arthur had come back almost dead from that O’Driscoll ordeal, even then, she knew in her heart of hearts that he would live. Because he was solid. He was made of something stronger than regular men, and this would protect him from the scourge of mortality. She always saw him that way, maybe him more so than anyone, because he stood so tall and so eager, and he had great skill for what he did.

But somehow, this trip was changing things. It had started with that night at the Winterson’s B&B. It wasn’t about seeing him injured, seeing him bloodied or beat up. That, to her, was second nature. It was about seeing him scared. That night, that dream about Eliza. He was scared. And then the night before with the ambush, when that horrible man had him by the neck in the woods, in the middle of that violent storm, that knife so close to cutting him open right in front of her—he was in danger. He could have died. She could have died, too, or worse, but she wasn’t thinking about her. That’s not what this was.

When he kissed her back in the loft at Hamish’s cabin, it was like a dream. Even if it was only for the moment. She remembered what it was to feel safe and held and accepted, like she had a place somewhere solid and real in the world, tucked away into his arms, arms she had, up until now, understood only as abstractions, symbols of strength and vitality and the unflinching heroism of such a handsome outlaw with a stoic disposition.

Their swelling intimacy, grown of both fear and what might be amounting to love was bringing him all the way down to earth now. She had always known he was a man, and a good man, but now he was a mortal man—he got scared, he lived his live in danger, and he was sort of becoming hers a little bit, and seeing and touching these inside parts of Arthur made her realize that he was not super, he was not impervious—not in his mind, heart, or his body. He could be hurt, and he could die. And thinking of this made her think about a life in which he did not exist. In which she did not hear his boots on the porch step no more, or walking the hallways of Shady Belle at night, making sure everyone was in their right places, safe as houses, before he would allow himself that same luxury of sleeping. He was so solid and big and strong and brave. How can a body like that die? How can a man like that feel fear? She had never thought about it before. And now, he was just out there, in the wilderness, alone, with his guns and his know-how, doing what he always did, which was just to make sure everything was safe, and she was frozen. She could barely even busy herself with the dishes. She was so consumed with her sudden realization that Arthur Morgan could die, that her heart was like a dumbass drum in her chest. And at some point, it was getting to be too damn much.

So she turned around from the window, and she tried to smack some sense into herself like Miss Grimshaw would do. Miss Grimshaw was a mean bitch but she knew a thing or two about practicality, a trait without which no woman of ambiguous station could have survived in their world. Mary Beth took a deep breath, leaning against the table.

“Get it together, Mary Beth,” she said. “This ain’t nothing new.”

After that, she came to her resolve. She pushed off the table, washed the plates and set the pan in the basin. She filled it with some water from the bucket, and added a little soap to let it soak. She found a bottle of bourbon under the sink then and took just one sip, and it burned and made her cough. She had no idea why she did this. Maybe because she thought it was something Sadie would do, or Abigail. These women who seemed older than they actually were and ripened to the world, and they both had been in love with men and gone through real fucked up shit in their lives with men, and their maturity and wisdom about men gave her something to shoot for. She set the bottle down on the counter. She breathed. She blinked. And that is when she looked over at the bed nearby the crackling fire, and she noticed the gramophone.

It was dusty, but it looked new. It was half covered in a plaid-looking dust cover, tucked against the wall. Dutch had one sort of like it. He would play music that permeated through the camp and made it feel romantic and safe. She went over, and she took off the dust cover and picked it up. It was heavy, but she was strong. She brought it over to the kitchen table. It had a record and everything, and it was a little dirty on its surface, so she wiped it down with a soft linen towel, and she wiped down the record, too. The label was missing. She didn’t know what she was in for. But she secured that record back on the turntable, and then she removed the little break on the spring motor, so the turntable rose up a little and the record started to spin. And then she set the needle down on the record, gently, and in an instant, it started to play.

Meanwhile, Arthur was outside. He did not encounter much on their horizon. It was quiet, and typical, and a boring perimeter check, which was the only good kind, but still. There was a grown black bear, night-prowling, rubbing its back on a tree not too far. When he came upon it, he made eye contact with the beast, pointed his gun and made a whistle, shouting for it to flee, and he waved an arm in the air. The bear was annoyed. It lazied away from that tree and kind of gave him a rebellious look, but then it lumbered into the dark, all aloof. Arthur lowered his gun. He was chewing on a piece of bark. He spat it to the earth and looked around some more. The world was pristine. He was done. He started heading back toward the cabin, and pretty soon he got close enough that he could hear music coming from inside.

It was weird at first. Not what he expected—such a manmade sound. He got up to the door, knocked, peaked through the window, took off his hat when he saw Mary Beth. She opened the door and right away she took his hand, gathering him inside the cottage. She palmed his cheeks like she was checking to make sure nothing had got a piece of him in secret while he was gone, and then she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him so hard, it dragged him down the full ten inches of height he must’ve had on her.

He laughed, holding her, dropped his hat. He was taken by surprise. “I’m fine,” he said. “There was nothing out there but a dumbass black bear.”

“Did you kill it?” she said, her face deep in his neck.

Her hair was getting in his mouth, his nose, everywhere all around. It was a clean smell of rainwater and iron, and it tickled. “No,” he said. “It might’ve robbed us blind of our provisions but it ain’t no danger. I just scared it off.”

“Okay,” she said. She was still right there in his collar, like she was breathing him in real deep.

He didn't want to move. He pushed all of her hair over one shoulder. He was taken aback by her level of relief and concern. As usual he had underestimated her affection for him, or perhaps he just kept forgetting. A defense mechanism of sorts. He sighed and held her face gently and pulled away so he could look her in the eye. “I’m fine,” he said, smiling. “See?”

Mary Beth nodded, her cheeks red and she kind of cast her eyes downward like she was embarrassed. “I know. I'm sorry.”

"Don’t be sorry."

They met eyes, and there was a moment, but then Mary Beth defused it by tucking her hair behind her ears and moving away. She went past him, and he exhaled and watched her go, and then he locked the door and closed all the curtains, and he leaned his gun against the kitchen table and removed his neckerchief and rolled up his sleeves and took a deep breath. He went over to the gramophone, where Mary Beth stood now with her arms crossed, watching the record spin. Arthur examined it with his hands on his hips. It was playing a lovely waltz, violins and a piano and everything. “It works,” he said after a little while.

“Yeah,” said Mary Beth. “It’s pretty new. I think it’s nicer than Dutch’s.”

This was amusing. “Don’t tell him that.”

“I never would.”

Arthur was rocking back on his heels a little bit now, looking at Mary Beth and her pretty face, her warmth, smiling at the gramophone. He was done with the day. The day was over, its various procedures and protocols taken care of. All these things he had to do to safeguard against so many of life's uncertainties. Riding, hunting, preparing, protecting. But that wasn’t all there was to it, was there? Life. 

When he had been outside before, getting dirty and cold, spooking that bear, he felt good about their dinner, their conversation, and how it had been so warm in the meantime, even despite this newfound tension between them. It made him think of her, and, again, how he just liked hanging out with her, and how he knew her touch now, her taste, and he'd felt her, and he'd let her in, and he hadn't allowed this for himself in so many years. So many. It changed things, and while he was outside, away from her, he missed her, and he did not want her to be worried, and it was too much. It turned out that it was too much, but for a man like Arthur, too much was probably just enough. It was only that he needed a little bit of hindsight. What does a man want at the end of his day? When his duties have been fulfilled, and the moon is high. What did Arthur want? He glanced around the room now. His gun was leaning by the door. His hat hung up for the evening. He felt accomplished in some weird way he could not pin down and could not describe, and yet, he was unfinished. 

“So,” he said, deferring to her. "What do we do now?" She always had good ideas.

She had both of her hands behind her back. She looked at him, hopeful and a little pleased with herself. She said, “Do you wanna dance?” And she held out her hand.

Arthur smiled. He took her hand in a familiar fashion. He said, "Sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like, you can listen to my playlist for Arthur and Mary Beth [on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/galadrieljones/playlist/5gJU1YcyOFooqB5hzfvbMY?si=If8TKcQdTBy9TFbXnpD4cA). <3


	12. A Good Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They would paddle on into dusk, and then into the night, falling deeper in love, and speaking even less, as night fell; paddling with the lantern lit and balanced on the bow, with moths following them[.]"
> 
> -Rick Bass, _The Canoeists_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tags have been updated for content. ___

“Where’d you learn to dance, Arthur?” said Mary Beth.

Arthur smiled, spun her some. He held her with soft hands. He was not remarkable, but he could pull it off. He was a very good, strong lead. “Miss Grimshaw,” he said.

Mary Beth felt herself laughing. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” he said. “I was about twenty or twenty-one. I was kind of a piece of work back then. She thought it would teach me some manners.”

“And did it work?”

He gave her a very knowing look. “I think so. It never fails to impress the ladies. Makes me seem softer than I am.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” said Mary Beth, responding to his touch with her own.

“I know,” he said.

They danced some more. The waltz was not upbeat, but it had a nice rhythm. The music made the whole cottage feel dreamy, like the colors had faded, or they were blurring together. It was like dancing through a painting. When the tempo slowed, so did Arthur. He was not an ostentatious sort of man. He just liked the music. He guided her waist with one hand, and her hand with the other. She moved close so she could rest her head, every lightly, against his chest and hear his beating heart against the sound of the song. The track had dipped into a ballad now, and it was more violins. More strings. Arthur sighed, his chest big. His chin about touched the top of her head. She felt covered by him and very happy. Their movements were slow, but they were still movements, to the quiet rhythm of the waltz.

“So few of the other men back at camp are willing to part with their pride for a dance,” she said. “Even Javier.”

“Javier is more bashful than he seems,” said Arthur. “He doesn’t perform but for behind that guitar.”

“I’m surprised you take to it so nicely. You got a lot up your sleeve, Arthur.”

He laughed a little, into her hair. “I don’t know about that, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“I’ve seen Dutch dance,” she said, “with Molly. Not so much no more. But he knows what he’s doing. He’s pretty smooth.”

“Perhaps Miss Grimshaw taught him as well.”

This amused her. “I always forget they was a thing.”

“It’s in the past,” said Arthur.

They got quieter. Her eyes were closed. Underneath the music was the crackling of the fire. She felt him move her hair off her back, push it all over one shoulder, in a practiced manner. His hands were big. He was disciplined in his touch. He traced one palm over her shoulder until she kind of shivered. He held her, not as friends. They had danced as friends, many times. This was not friends. This was something more. They were dancing very close.

He sighed, after a little while. His sighs were big, just like his hands. “Hmm,” he said, real low. Then he did it again, like he was thinking. _Hmm._ “Mary Beth,” he said finally.

“Yeah?”

He’d been saving up, maybe. He brought the back of her hand to his lips. He kissed her knuckles with his eyes closed. Her whole hand could fit inside of his. Then he spoke with true intention. “I ain’t ever gonna leave you,” he said, his voice all full of breath, all full of gravel, spilling down her back, into her hair.

She looked up at him. She was surprised by this—this outpouring. And yet she wasn’t. “I know,” she said.

He tucked the hair behind her ear, caressed both her cheeks, studying her. “I’m a fool.”

“You’re not a fool.”

“I deny. That’s what I do.”

“No it ain’t.”

“I ain’t gonna make you wait on me,” he said. “I want you. It’s all I want. Do you understand?”

She smiled, big, like melting into the earth. “Yeah, I do,” she said.

“You’re a good girl,” he said, like he couldn’t believe it was true, taking all the stray pieces of hair off her face. “If you want me, that’s gotta mean something.”

“I do,” she said.

They met eyes then, real brisk but hard, and then they sort of just, crashed into each other. Foreheads, then mouths. They kissed—this time deeper than the last, with a lot more meaning and forward motion, like they were fastening their souls and letting go of the bad. She held him by the wrists and he put his big hands in her curly hair. Then she sank into him and held him by his open collar, and he stood tall, signaling to her that he had cast off with his indecision. She had no indecision. At this point, words were meaningless. There had been so many words exchanged between them. Words were easy for them, and it was this, the action, that had needed its time to mature, but now it had as she felt her hands down his broad chest and tucked them against the tough leather of his belt, which holstered his heavy guns, and she thought that if he would let her take it off for him, that would be a symbol and she knew moments like this weren't meant to be symbols, like this was real life, but sometimes Mary Beth's mind couldn't help itself in this way.

It went like a rockslide. He did not stop her. He was consumed with the laces of her blouse and how they braided together, but for such big hands he had a careful precision to his touch, and it was trained and practiced and filled with subtlety. She was not so subtle. She fussed with the belt a little. It was big and cumbersome, but eventually she got it free, and this relieved him of the weight of his holsters—his revolver and his pistol. The movement, getting it off, had been kind of rough by accident, and she'd had to tug, and she could tell it kind of surprised him as he grunted deep in his chest. The guns were such heavy pieces, she thought. She could not believe how he carried them around on his body like this, day after day. She lowered the holsters to the floor, with one hand, slowly to where the guns and the leather all piled with a jingle and a heavy sound. She knew they were loaded. It would not have been safe to drop them.

Determined after that, she untucked his shirt because it had already sort of come untucked, but that was all he was gonna allow for the moment. He let her get that far, but a man of his chivalry, he scooped her into his arms and picked her up until her skirts and her legs all gathered around him. She was swept away in this. God it fucked her up and made her dizzy. He held her high up, with ease, so that she was nearly over him, chin down as they kissed, her hands covering his hair, and then he lowered them both to the bed, him sitting and her in his lap, and that was it—it all went out the window. His suspenders came down, her blouse came undone like a handkerchief, floating to the floor in a pile by the artillery. It was romantic down there, with the artillery. He seemed to know how to get a girl out of her skirt. He removed the ties and unhooked the grapple and then it, too, was on the floor. His shirt went with it. This all continued until she had him unbuttoned and out of his trousers, and then she was lowering herself, and he was inside of her. Just like that.

And with this, he put them at a full stop. He held her firmly by the shoulders. He stared at her until she was staring back, fixed with his focus, his careful blue eyes. They assessed—each other, the moment. He pushed the hair out of her face. She put his hair behind his ears. They both felt everything as she palmed his cheeks and rocked, slow against him. He nodded, his breath revealing itself now as vulnerable and ragged. It was good, he seemed to say. Slow was good. Don’t stop. He held her by the hips, felt behind until he could clamp her closer, harder, pushing into her, wrapping her into his wingspan until she seemed to diminish. She kissed him. He kissed her. This went on until he couldn’t take it anymore, picked her up, put her onto her back. He made good of her then, until she was but a puddle in the sheets. And he went with her, too. Sinking into the earth until he lost himself inside of her. The gramophone still turned. The music had stopped long ago, but it was determined to accompany them still. Deep. Gone. Till they finished.

 

Before Arthur, Mary Beth had only been with two boys in her whole life. That was years before. The last time had been a sweet-natured boy born to a farm, his hands always stained with dirt and clay, as he was a ranch hand for his daddy, breaking calves and breaking horses, plowing the earth. She had a soft spot for boys who worked with their hands. The gang had been camped somewhere in Colorado. It was the year John had disappeared. Arthur was pissed off constantly, all full of bluster. He was still far away from anything she ever could have envisioned taking for herself. Like a seething older brother, always brooding, mean—not to her, just to the world in general. Like he was gonna make it pay. But this boy, the rancher’s son, he’d taken to her at the saloon and brought her a bouquet of daffodils. It was early spring. They spent many days together in the valleys close to town. She told no one but Abigail, who she had sort of counted as a big sister in the beginning, even though she really wasn't all that much older than Mary Beth. He always pulled out, so she didn’t get pregnant. It ended when the gang had to leave. Somebody got pinched, a jailbreak—Bill maybe. It was always Bill. This got them into longterm trouble with the locals. It was time to move on.

Her first time had been all the way back in Kansas City, before she’d ever even met Arthur, or Dutch, or any of the boys. She was seventeen, and it was a boy she knew from the church downtown. She liked to go to church because it made her feel pure amidst her self-perceived sins as an urchin girl and a pickpocket, and though she had never been religious, not once in her  life, she would talk to her mama, and her daddy, and her brother up in what she knew had to be heaven, while she sat idly in the pews, explaining all about her life now, and how she was sad, but she knew it would be okay. She met this boy, and he was poetic, as he liked to read William Wordsworth from a book he had stolen for her from the penny store. He was from the wrong side of the tracks. They always was. The two of them made love one time, on a soft blanket, on the bank of the Mississippi, but he had recently joined the Navy, and the very next day, he left Kansas City forever. She never saw or heard from him again. It was sad, but it was real.

That was girlhood, she knew now. That was dreams. These past few years she had grown up in quiet ways that changed her, tempered her down, gave her some grit. She’d seen things now, been places, lived in both safety and in fear, made friends—very close friends who no matter what became of her and them and their dying way of life, she would count as pieces of her heart forever. After her brother died, she knew she was never gonna be anything graceful in this world. Anything fancy. But she didn’t care. She had her books and her paper and her pens and her people. And she was good at her work, pickpocketing in the cities, and she was holding a good man in her good embrace, and he was holding her back, and it felt like everything bad and good she had ever experienced in her life so far was leading her straight into him. She was not trying to be romantic. She was not trying to be dreamy and whimsical, like she knew so many people thought her to be. She was just existing. And he had never once underestimated her, and that was the whole point.

 

When Arthur finished, he came inside her. It was not what he intended to do, but she urged him forth with her regular sense of promise and love, and it was what he wanted, and what she wanted, too. Giving themselves had been a conscious choice. There was nothing simple or short-lived about what they had undertaken that night. They lie in the sheets now, curled into one another. She was tracing his big scar with her fingers. He was just absorbing her sensations, his eyes closed. His heart still. He wanted to turn her around, finish her with his hands or his mouth—something, anything, but he was dead beat now, and so he would save it for next time, his giving. He pulled his fingers through a few strands of her hair. He touched every part of her body. The freckles went everywhere. It was not just her cheeks, or her shoulders or her knees. He thought of nothing but the present. She continued to pet him, like he were hers. Something bad inside of him disappeared.

She said she had to pee. This amused him, but he got up with her. She wrapped herself in a blanket. He walked her to the door, and waited, naked as an animal, in the doorway. The air was cold, but it was refreshing. She ran to the little outhouse, and she was back in a flash. She came back into the cottage, and he locked the door, and then she went back into the bed, and then he stoked the fire, picked up the needle off the record in the gramophone, so that all they could hear was the crackling flame and nature noises outside. Then he got back in the bed with her, where they lie beneath a linen cover in their quiet extinction, entangled with their messy skin and messy hair, and exhausted in the sheets. Arthur dimmed the lamp at the bedside table. The fire kept the room glowing and warm and feeling alive. They slept as if nothing had ever happened.

The shadows from the flames threw across their naked bodies and into the walls. Her skirts and her blouse and his shirt and his pants, all their clothes and Arthur’s guns still lay quiet in their poetic shambles on the wooden floor. The dishes were stacked clean and washed in the basin, far away in the background. Outside, there were bears and ghosts and whispers of broken dreams and dead people, and the sky was just a wool blanket pressed to the light, full of pin pricks that looked and seemed like stars. Arthur dreamed of nothing. Or, he dreamed of falling, but never landing. He never hit. He never died. He had never been so tired in all his life. That's what he was dreaming. It was like he was resting, really resting, for the first time in a hundred years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make fan art sometimes. Here are some arts I made of Arthur and Mary Beth, dancing, and pretty much "crashing" into each other:
> 
>  
> 
> ["Dance"](http://galadrieljones.tumblr.com/post/183598382301/things-are-heating-up-in-my-arthur-x-mary-beth)
> 
>  
> 
> ["The Lovers"](http://galadrieljones.tumblr.com/post/183619666691/vi-the-lovers-arthur-x-mary-beth)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. <3 -gala


	13. Liminal Refuge

They slept late. Arthur was usually up with the birds. But a little rain shower had moved in, and it hid all the rest of the sounds with its regular drumming on the rooftop, and it hid the sun. He roused slowly, forgetting for a moment where he was, until he stretched into full consciousness and saw the raindrops on the kitchen window, and he felt big inside his warmth, and still sleepy. Mary Beth was there, curled into the sheet. The bed was modest in size, so they’d slept very close together. She was still, breathing steadily in sleep, her hair curly and dry and tangled and big. He placed one of his palms on her bare shoulder, lightly, ran his hand down her back to feel the warmth on her early morning skin. It made a sound like sand paper. She didn’t stir. He laid back down beside her for just a moment, kissed her eyebrow with a kind of slow intent. Then he pushed off the linen blanket, got up, placed his bare feet on the floor, rubbed his cheeks and his eyes and looked around.

Outside of the bed, the room was damp, the fire nearly dead in the mantle. He got up right away to toss in another log, then two, stoked it until it found its footing once more. He found his underclothes—just a pair of cotton drawers somewhere in the pile by the foot of the bed. He pulled them on, then his pants, and then he put on his socks, his shirt, buttoned it halfway. He rolled up the sleeves, felt rumpled, but it was too chilled in the cottage to walk around without them. With his boots on, and his hat, he went out to feed the horses and check on their well-being in the gentle rain. They were idled up against the side of the house, hitched and safe, grazing in the bullrush there. He smoked a cigarette while standing beside them, and then he brought in the saddlebags—from both Watson and Sarah. The spare clothing in each were mostly dry. He hung up his hat, and then he hung their clothes from a short line, in front of the fireplace, to warm them, and then he started going through the pantry in the kitchen. He found a can of ground coffee, half-full, and a small basket of quail eggs. He cracked one of the eggs outside the front door to make sure they weren’t rotten, and when they weren’t, he went back in to make some breakfast.

He had about a quarter loaf of bread for provisions in his saddlebag, carved it up and buttered it, then he made the coffee in the percolator lent to them by Hamish. He had just started cracking the eggs into a wooden mixing bowl when Mary Beth finally began to budge. She tossed and turned a little, then she sort of sat striaght up, staring at the place in the bed where Arthur had been in the hour before. She seemed startled, but then she looked around, and he finally caught her eye, where he was leaning against the counter, peeling an apple with the knife from his belt, which still lie in shambles on the floor.

“Good morning,” he said. He had a toothpick between his teeth. He’d found a stash in the pantry near the coffee.

She was surprised by him, his wakefulness. She smiled, too, shy-looking though. She seemed very aware of her hair all of a sudden, began pressing it down and trying to tame it behind her ears. She was sitting up in the bed with the sheet pulled up to her shoulders, looking flushed and rested and very pretty. Outside, the rain still drummed some, on and off. She pulled back the curtain to the window by the bed to examine the weather. Then she closed it again and looked at Arthur. “Good morning,” she said.

“We slept a later than intended,” said Arthur, cracking the eggs. “It puts the day’s plans in question.”

“Not to mention the rain,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing. “Not to mention the rain.”

She turned around, slowly, swinging her bare feet over the edge of the bed. She kept the linens tucked around around her in modesty. Arthur poured two mugs full of coffee and brought them both over. He sat beside her on the bed, handed her one of the mugs. She thanked him and let her face linger in the steam for a moment, eyes closed. When she opened her eyes again, she took a sip, and then she sighed. Still shy. He could tell she was very self-conscious that morning.

“My hair is like a damn rat’s nest,” she said, red-cheeks. “Don’t you think?”

He tucked a piece of it behind her ear for her. “No,” he said. “Or, maybe a little. But in a good way. It’s a very pretty rat’s nest.” He sipped his coffee, smirked a little.

This defused things. She smiled and shoved him in the knee. He laughed to himself. Then, she became a little serious. She looked at him in a kind of sweetness and hope but like she didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have anything to say. He grazed her chin with his thumb and brought his mouth to hers, kissing her. She yielded to him, and when they parted, she sort of tugged at his collar and shrugged because it felt right. Then she smiled and said, “Well. I guess I’m yours now.”

“Guess so,” he said. He smirked at her again, a piece of his hair falling in his face, and then he scrubbed her once on the head, patted her on the knee, and then he got up and went back to the kitchen to continue preparing the eggs.

Mary Beth felt very relieved by his ease of mind, and very happy. She was elated by the morning and by Arthur’s touch. She looked around, sipping her coffee. She saw a different room than she’d seen the night before. Or, it was the same, but like she was seeing it from the other side of some grand divide she didn’t know existed till now. “How long’s it been raining?” she sid.

“Maybe a couple of hours,” said Arthur, beating the eggs with a fork. “The sky is pretty gray, but I think it might burn off by noon.”

“So should we put off the moose till tomorrow?” she said.

“Maybe,” said Arthur. He lit the stove, placed a pan on the flame. “Maybe not. We’ll see.”

“Okay,” said Mary Beth. “You check on the horses?”

“I did.”

She smiled and got up from the bed. She left the sheet on and went over to the mantle where Arthur had graciously hung their clothes from a line to warm by the fire. She took down her yellow skirt and the long-sleeved blue blouse, studied them. Arthur was busy with the pan and the spatula now, dressed in the same clothes he wore yesterday. She wanted to be useful, but he seemed satisfied. So she got dressed. She felt him looking at her—just glances. It was exciting. Still, he remained his gentlemanly self, even as he had seen and held all their was of her the night before. She felt special then, like she had a secret.

She brushed her hair. It took a while to get out the tangles, but eventually it all came free and she braided it loosely over her shoulder and then she took her book of Yates out of the saddlebag and sat down at the kitchen table with what was left of the coffee, and she opened the book and put her chin in her hands to read. But it was no use. She simply could not concentrate. She was too full of feelings that morning to concentrate on Irish poetry.

Arthur served the eggs and the buttered bread and the sliced apples sprinkled with brown sugar in a pretty glass bowl. He then sat down across from her at the table as she closed the book and put it away, and then she admired the modest but lovely spread he had put together for them.

“I don’t make too many breakfasts these days,” he said, readying his fork. “I hope it ain’t terrible.”

“Oh, please,” said Mary Beth. “It looks real fine.”

“Taste it before you go spreading the word.”

“I will,” she said, smiling.

It was real fine.

After breakfast, they cleaned up, and Arthur changed his clothes. They were at a stalemate for time and weather, but they decided to go riding around the trails anyway, just to see. The rain was intermittent, coming and going from long, gray clouds with patchy sun that seemed to cleanse the valley and make them feel refreshed. In a way, Arthur felt that they already reached their destination, as the destination became unclear, but they kept going anyway, still keeping with their plan to return to the cottage by dark.

Arthur was chewing some mint leaves and about ten or so miles north of the cottage, Mary Beth wanted to stop to pick wild blackberries, which were growing along the trail in ample, thorny bramble. They were headed toward a bend in the Kamassa River where Arthur knew there to be a good bounty of Steelhead trout, and he thought this seemed a good place to idle for a while. They hitched up the horses and fed them some hay and some of the blackberries from Mary Beth’s basket. Arthur felt wide awake as they approached lunchtime, put a blanket down near the riverbank, and then lit them each a cigarette. They lounged for a little while, Arthur on his back with his eyes closed to the intermittent sun. Mary Beth smoked demurely as she sifted through her blackberry stash and then read from her book. For the time being, the rain had gone away, and they could hear the sounds of the river and the horses and little animals wriggling in the brush. She placed her hand on his wide chest, looking out at the brown river where some big fish jumped. He opened his eyes to her touch, turned his head to look at her, the cigarette smoked down to the nub. He tossed it and took her hand, laced his fingers casually into hers. He watched her watch the river. After some time, she sighed and looked at him. She seemed serious, or pensive with something on her mind. She looked down at their knuckles and grazed his, scarred but clean with the soft part of her thumb.

“You okay?” said Arthur, squinting past the sunlight, which was breaking through the clouds, filtering through the trees in pretty yellow flecks.

“Yeah,” she said, looking back at the river. She seemed content, calm, but there was something tense behind her eyes. “It’s so pretty here.”

“It sure is,” said Arthur.

Then, she looked at him, right into him. With the night before, she could pry into his soul now, it seemed. She could come right inside and look around and fill it with her smell and her sounds and her taste. “Do you miss the swamps?" she said.

Arthur turned onto his side to face her, propped up on an elbow. She laid down on her side, too, so they could be eye to eye. “No," he said.

She still held his hand, was still looking down at their fingers. Her hands were clean and strong and smooth. Small, but not without their callused palms. She seemed like she was about to say something else, but when she looked up, she was looking past him. Something caught her eye, and she suddenly became excited, or full of surprise. “Arthur,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder, like he wasn’t already staring right at her.

“What?” he said. He went from looking at her, to looking over his shoulder, then back to her, then back over his shoulder.

“Look,” she said.

When he finally got his head around to follow her gaze, he then saw what she was seeing. It was down the river a ways, wading, sniffing at something on the bank. A moose, huge and unaware. The very thing they had come looking for, and there it was. It had found them. Arthur sat up, very quiet, to study its demeanor. It was far enough, it didn’t see them yet. It was going in the water, wetting its hooves. His heart caught a little, like it always did when he came upon a crop of good game. The excitement of it always made him feel young again, or like he’d always been young. Sometimes, he couldn’t tell if he was young or old or what there was in between.

“It’s so big,” said Mary Beth, rapt and still. “I never seen a moose up close before.”

“They’re big,” said Arthur. “But it’s gonna spook if we move too fast.”

She got up then, sitting back on her heels. She had brought one hand to her mouth as she studied its giant, gentle movements in the water. Her eyes going back and forth, like she was taking in a whole mystery. “No way will we ever be able to make use of it all,” she said then, a surprise. “It’s too much. It’d be a waste.”

“The pelt and antlers alone could bring in fifty dollars,” said Arthur.

“Fifty dollars?” she said. “I got that in my saddlebag, in pocket watches.”

"I see,” said Arthur, coming to her meaning. He turned away from the moose, got up to his knees to try and steal back her eyes. But she was still staring at the animal, deeply conflicted. “We don’t have to hunt it, Mary Beth,” he said, smiling. “We can just…leave it be.”

This seemed to both relieve but also confuse her. “It’s our quest,” she said.

“No it ain't,” said Arthur.

She looked right at him then, real hard. She blinked, like she was just surfacing from a long and terrible dream. Her hair was braided loosely, and it had started to come undone from the ride. The pieces were in her face, just wisps of reddish brown that he put away for her behind her ear. She smiled then, in a shy way, and she placed her hand on his neck and said, “You're right.” Then she kissed him, which was what he had wanted her to do. It was easy now, like a clear cut path. The kiss was deep but not infinite or out of control. It came to an end, and when it did, he glanced lazily over his shoulder once more, looking for that moose, but it had gone.

 

After that, Arthur built a fire. He gave Mary Beth his fishing pole and told her to catch a fish.

“Me?” she said.

“Of course,” he said, striking a match off the soul of his boot, tossing it to the firewood. “Show me your stuff.”

She sighed, standing there by the river bank, holding that fishing pole in her hand, wearing her yellow skirt and blue blouse, looking sort of flustered. It was about noon, and just as Arthur had predicted, the clouds had burnt off and the weather was warmer now. He’d rolled up his sleeves and taken off his hat. His hair was long enough now that he could tie it back in the front, which he did with a piece of twine from Mary Beth’s pocket. For a minute, he was just looking at her and the sweat gathering there, near the hair around her forehead.

He was chewing a piece of bark, spat it to the earth. Then, she said something kind of funny.

“What if I can’t do it again?” 

She was looking at him like she was nervous—not about the fish-catching, but about impressing him somehow.

It was so amusing. He almost laughed. “You will,” he said. “And if luck don’t find you, it don’t matter. We’ll shoot a rabbit.”

“I don’t really like rabbit,” she said.

The fire was lit now. Arthur looked away from her and took to stoking it with a long stick. “Me neither, truth be told.”

“Maybe a pheasant? Or a duck.”

“Sure.”

This seemed to make her breathe easier. “Fine,” she said. “But you’re shooting the duck if that’s what it comes to.”

“It’s a deal.”

“You got crickets?” she said, examining the hook and the reel. “Crickets are for rivers, right?”

Arthur smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

The fishing went on for a little while. Mary Beth cast her line, stood still, waiting, content for some time. But then, at some point, she seemed to lose her attention span. She seemed to forget all about what she was doing and was looking up at the sky like she saw something funny in the shape of the clouds.

Arthur led the horses out to graze by the fire and drink from the river. They were good girls and followed him calmly. He sliced up a pear and ate half off the blade of his knife, and then he brought the other half over to Mary Beth. She seemed startled.

“It’s just fruit,” he said.

“I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn’t see you coming.” She clutched her heart, took the pear. “I get so lost in my own mind sometimes.”

“I know.” He smiled at this.

After a little while longer, Mary Beth finally got a bite. Much to Arthur’s great encouragement, she reeled it in, slowly but real steady. It was a big one. After some patience, she managed to bring it up, flopping around, and Arthur helped her in this final stage to keep it from bouncing loose. He picked it up with two hands, wriggling like a maniac—maybe a six or seven pounder. Steelhead. Arthur was so proud. It slowed eventually and went still, and he was holding it out by the tail, admiring, and seeming to present it to her and to all of nature.

“Very good,” he said. He clapped her on the shoulder as he admired the catch. "Take a look at that."

Mary Beth was so impressed by herself. She was smiling so big she almost forgot she was holding that fishing pole. Nearly tipping over into the river with her excitement, she handed it to Arthur, and the two went over to the fire.

“I knew you could do it,” he said. “And I have now seen it for myself.”

“I’ll admit I thought it was a lost cause for a minute,” she said.

“That’s normal. With fishing, that’s normal.” He smiled, with the pole resting on his shoulder, looking very country and very hale to her in the afternoon sun.

Arthur gutted and deboned and filleted the fish. With help from Mary Beth, he seasoned it up, and then he fried it in a pan over the fire. They ate it for lunch, picking at it with their fingers, sitting on the blanket by the river bank. The scene was beautiful and fair and it reminded Mary Beth of Kansas, and her days on the Mississippi, when she would sit under a tree by the Mississippi and read her books on her downtime. She had few friends back then. She mostly found joy and acceptance through the characters she loved and the stories she devoured. She read everything she get her hands on: Jane Austen, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Louisa May Alcott. The list went on forever.

When they finished with their lunch, it was mid-afternoon and a lonely, beautiful river country. The bugs were copious but it was cool enough and the humidity wasn’t bad, and that kept them at bay. Arthur was big in his silence that afternoon, but content as he looked at the river, his face absorbing color from the sun, as he ate blackberries out the palm of his hand. Watching him, watching the river, Mary Beth began to feel the mounting tension in her heart once more, the same tension as before when they were doing this. She couldn't shake it.

What plagued her? Easily, she knew. It was her uncertainty over what it would mean for them to have to go home—go back to Shady Belle. After all this. Everything about it in her memory felt now decayed and far away and full of ghosts. She had romanticized the place upon their first arrival—a big, dusty old plantation home in the middle of the swamp. It was beautiful in its desuetude. Haunted. But now it just seemed murky and full of muddy footprints in her memory, like a palace crumbling with its windows broken and the heat from the swamps boiling the gators who would come out to sunbathe about this hour every day, full of laziness in their threatening airs. She realized that she was sitting up very straight after a while, with her knees pulled into her chest, staring coldly into the river, when Arthur seemed to notice and got up to come sit closer. He knew something was wrong, and this time, there was no moose to come along and distract them.

He put his arm around her, in an old familiar way. She let herself lean on him. She sighed as if she were going to speak but then she didn’t really know what to say. Arthur took a deep breath, tossed a rock into the water. It went in with a thunk and left ripples on the surface.

“I don’t wanna go back,” she said after a little while, feeling like she might cry. She was so filled with feelings all of a sudden. It was confusing, to not want to go back, because  _back_ was home, or at least it was supposed to be, but she had a bad feeling, and her heart felt as though it would burst and spill into the river. She had fallen in love with him and with this wilderness. It was a beautiful story and she did not want it to end.

“I know,” said Arthur. He was sturdy, somehow. Resolved in a way she had never really seen. She looked up at him and his jaw was set very firm, like he was thinking about something. He studied the opposite bank of the river. There were a bunch of ducks sunning themselves in the mud. He tossed in another rock, further this time. This startled the ducks who protested loudly, took off into the skies and disappeared.

Arthur and Mary Beth looked at each other then, and they felt a mutual pull inside their bodies, reminding them of how alone they were, how far away still, making them into magnets. Arthur let his eyes wander to her chin, her freckled throat, unbuttoned her there, kept going until the blue blouse fell away, exposing the skin beneath. He pushed the strap down, that of her white slip chemise, freeing her shoulder, and then he leaned close, and he kissed it. He felt her breathe out, put his mouth to her neck, the soft of her ear. He reached up her skirt and found her there, hidden, but only just, felt into her until she was on her back beside him, and she said his name, kissed his mouth as he cradled her head with his other hand. This went on, gently, slowly, for a while. She kept saying it, his name. When she came, her legs shook, and he shook, on an exhale. It had been a long time since he'd made a woman do that. He wanted to do it again, but she pulled him toward her and undressed him and they made love instead, slow but hard, on the river bank. Like animals, glistening in the afternoon sun.

 

Far away, when they finished, lying calmly in their nakedness on the blanket by the river, she could not hear the sounds of the camp life anymore, or the sounds of the swamps and the clanking bustle of St. Denis. She didn't know what this meant. She could only hear the river. She looked at Arthur, so still, every part of him limp and quiet beside her, and she wondered what he was thinking after all that. He'd never spoke, not really. His breathing steady now, he just had his eyes closed, facing upward toward the sky.


	14. Bad Dreams

Arthur dozed off. The daylight warmed his body until he sort of vibrated into sleep, sank, very heavy, like oil in the river mud. At some point, he opened his eyes, and it wasn’t long past, as the sun had only melted a little bit, a fuzzy fixture on his face but he still felt cold. When he turned his head, he expected to see Mary Beth, asleep and warm in the blanket beside him, with her hair in that rat’s nest that he wanted to touch, but she was not there.

He sat up, confused for a minute, looking around at the freshwater earth. “Mary Beth?” he said.

“Right here,” she said. She was dressed, right over there, golden in the sun. He was relieved. She was wearing new clothes—clothes he didn’t remember her having before. The blouse was pink and familiar, but he didn’t remember her having those before.

“You look real pretty,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, standing there, holding her basket in her hands. “You looked so peaceful, sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He hung his head. “I shouldn’t’ve fallen asleep like that.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I fell asleep, too. It wasn’t long. Maybe a hour or so?”

He nodded, yawned, looked around. He though he heard something. “Did you hear that?”

“I gotta pee,” she said, smiling, adjusting the strap from her shotgun over her shoulder. “It ain’t far.”

“Wait for me,” said Arthur.

“Don’t worry, cowboy. I’m just peeing.”

He gave her a look. She never called him that. His brain was so groggy though, so full of fog and the warm memory of her skin, her insides—maybe he’d misheard. He was grateful. He didn’t know he could feel it anymore, that sort of need in him that made his blood rush to the surface. Women frequently wanted Arthur, but he did not always ascertain their reasoning and he didn't entertain them much beyond warm smiles of intimate rejection. Now here he was. She was so clear, he thought. She was crisp and right there, but he was having a hard time getting up off that blanket. He regarded himself, stark naked on the river bank, and he felt very heavy. “Don’t be long,” he said.

“If I see her,” said Mary Beth, looking over her shoulder as she went away toward the trees, “I’ll be sure and tell her you say hello.”

It was the strangest thing to say. He almost laughed. “See who?” he said.

She just smiled. “Eliza.”

 

He awoke. Real hard. It was a fuckin dream.

“Mary Beth?”

He sat up very straight. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes while he came back into being. He immediately turned to touch her. He felt fucked up. But the sun had gone below the tree line across the river, and the sky was purple and cool, and the feeling, a bad feeling—it gnawed him hard, and the blanket was cold, and she wasn’t there. He jolted when she wasn't there. He looked back to the fire, which was also cold and not as he had remembered, and she was not there either. It was very disorienting. Her clothes were gone, and so was her gun. “Mary Beth?” he said again. “Where’d you go?”

There wasn’t any answer.

He breathed. He tried to recall the dream. What had the dream been? He couldn’t remember. Something with Eliza. A haunt, the barbed wire, and he could barely even remember her face anymore. It couldn't have been. He didn’t even know if he had any pictures of her, of them, but he remembered them being taken—right when the baby was born, and he wondered if there was one maybe, somewhere, with Hosea’s things. Hosea had been there, when the baby was born. Sometimes the pictures got tossed in with Hosea’s things. He was better at keeping track of the past in an organized fashion and suddenly Arthur was anxious over this and over everything else. He was anxious to be a father, a man, feeling genuine love for a woman out of nowhere. He was anxious to be alone—on that blanket, in the world, as he looked around and wondered where she’d gotten to—Mary Beth.

He got up. He threw on his pants, put on his boots, his shirt, left it untucked, fussed with the buttons. He said her name again, adjusting his collar. He picked up his own shotgun from where it rested by his satchel. His was much more intimidating than hers. He cocked it once. Called out for her again. “Mary Beth?” he said.

He gazed upstream. He squinted into the twilight. He saw the horses were lazying, with their hooves in the water, some ways down. He said her name again, and there was still no answer. At that point, a disturbance flew up behind him on the water in the other direction, which served as a momentary distraction—seven or eight ducks exploding into the sky. He turned around to see what it was. He said her name again.      

At first nobody was there, he saw nothing. Said her name one more time. Then he squinted into the treescape across the river. He had no idea what it was, what was coming, but something was there. He raised up the gun. But then he saw something else that he didn’t expect, and it was like a fucking wake-up call straight into his face. Coming back out to drink, to reserve its spot by the river for the evening—it was the moose. That goddam moose, the same moose. It was so strange, he thought. Strange, like stopping time. He stared in awe, and then it saw him, and it lifted its head, alarmed, and, it looked right at him. Arthur lowered his gun, and for no discernible reason that he could presently identify, he just stared at this moose in what felt like fantastical stupidity for a long time, its hugeness controlling all of its surrounding atmospheres, and in his trance, he totally lost grip on his reality, began to wonder if he was awake or asleep—because sometimes with bad dreams it was not so easy to tell, and he thought that yes, this must be one of them—one of the bad dreams. He searched his mind for what it meant. But then, like the hand of God, he was jerked hard back to the surface, accosted by the loud sound of a gunshot—a real, fucking awake and alive gunshot, going off, cracking like hell, nearby. It was not a dream. 

The moose ran off. The horses had spooked and were coming his way. Arthur blinked rapidly, turned around to face the advancing trees beyond their camp from which the gunshot had arisen. Several black birds had gone into the sky with the blast, out the brush somewhere he could not see. He told the horses to stay, then he set out quickly in the direction of the gunshot, where it had echoed out, and where the birds had been, now entering an outright panic.

“Mary Beth?” he said again, louder this time. It was so weird. But his ears were ringing and he could barely hear his own voice inside his own head. He could no longer envision what lie ahead of him. Where was she? “Mary Beth?”

He stood in what felt like the middle of the goddam haunted forest. It seemed like hours had gone by, but it had been only minutes. And it was not a haunted forest. It was just a patch of trees behind the river, he told himself. But it felt huge as he was looking around and the day was leaving fast all of a sudden, swinging through his vision like the shadows of ghosts that he could barely register. He said her name one more time, as loud as he could, his voice like a horrible barking noise ringing through the valley, and he was not thinking, not seeing. His mind felt like knives. For a split second, he convinced himself that she was dead, and he, himself, would soon be dead.

But then, his heart caught. Like on a fishing hook, real sharp. Finally, he heard her: she called out to him in direct reply from somewhere up ahead. “I’m here,” she was saying, in her voice. “Over here.”

He breathed out. It was such a dramatic exhale, he thought he might trip over the relief. “Don’t move,” he shouted, his voice breaking. He took off in the direction of the sound of her voice.

When he got there, she was closer to the river than he had realized. She hadn’t even gotten that far, he thought. She wasn’t that far, but the trees were thick all around her, and the river was loud. There were some rapids. She must not have heard him. She was dressed in her yellow skirt and her blue blouse, just like before, and she was on her knees with her back to him, holding that shotgun in both hands, shaking. It was a strange sight.

“Mary Beth,” he said, coming right to her.

She did not turn around. “Arthur,” she said.

“What’s going on?” he said.

She just shook her head. “I don’t—I didn’t wanna.”

“What’s wrong?”

He got close, knelt behind her, flung his gun over his shoulder and placed one of his hands on the back of her neck in a reassuring fashion. He peered over her shoulder then, and he saw it up close—the thing that had happened. Curled into the dirt, there was a mess of blood and fur, an animal. A wolf. A dead wolf. Its jaw was exploded from its skull, shot clean off at point blank. “You shot a wolf,” he said. “Holy shit.”

She was still shaking, he felt it. She was crying, too. He came to realize how affected she was then, and how close the call, so he just pulled her into his embrace. She gave into him easily. He held her—so hard—he thought he might lose consciousness. “Jesus Christ,” he said after a minute of comforting her, finally allowing the relief to wash over his tired heart, pressing his whole face into her hair. “Are you okay? You scared the gotdam shit out of me, Mary Beth.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She was nearly sobbing. “I’m okay.”

“What happened?”

“I just—I had to pee,” she said, still crying. “Then I started gathering blackberries again. I thought—I thought maybe when we got back to the cottage, I could render some of that lard from the deer you brought in yesterday, or find some butter in the pantry, bake a pie. I saw flour and sugar in the cupboard under the basin. But then I got off the trail. I just got distracted for a second.”

Arthur looked past her, back at the dead-eyed wolf. “You should’ve woke me.”

“I know,” she said. “But you just looked so peaceful. I only intended to be gone a minute.”

He blinked and shook out his head. He held her tight. “It ain’t no reason not to wake me.”

“She just came out of nowhere,” said Mary Beth, shaking her head, staring at the dead animal. “I barely saw it coming. I had to do it. I didn’t wanna.”

“It’s okay,” he said, holding her to his chest. “It’s okay. You did real good.”

“But it ain’t good,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

She broke away from him a little then and wiped her eyes on the palms of her hands. She had blood on her knuckles, and a little on her blouse. She leaned forward and shoved the wolf over to its back, showing Arthur what she’d seen—the underside of its belly, sagging and full. “She has cubs,” said Mary Beth. “Little ones, somewhere. See? She’s all full of milk. She was a mother.”

Arthur was still breathing so hard. He didn’t understand at first, why she was telling him this. The negotiation did not make sense to him, not initially. It was a wild animal that had tried to kill her. She killed it first. But then he really saw her, like really looked at her, sweaty, flustered, familiar to him, watching the dead wolf, her hair still a dampened mess from their sex on the riverbank, her eyes puffy and red from the ordeal with the wolf, the blood on her hands, how she had discarded the gun to her side now like a foreign and dangerous instrument that she did not understand and did not want to touch. He felt such a tremendous need to protect her. It was bigger than anything he could fathom. He forgot all about Eliza. All about the dreams.

“You’re okay,” he said. He placed his hand on her shoulder, real firm. “That’s all that matters.”

She sniffled, wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I know,” she said, touching her hand to his. “I know you’re right. I know it had to be done.”

“You can’t punish yourself. It ain’t like that.”

“I know.”

“Come on,” he said. “It’s getting dark. We should head back to the cottage.”

“Can we bury her first?” she said, looking up at him, her eyes wide and glassy.

This was confusing. “The wolf?”

“Yeah,” said Mary Beth. “Somewhere there’s cubs now, with no mama, and I’m responsible. It feels right.”

Arthur looked around, sighed. “I ain’t got no shovel, Mary Beth, and the ground...well I reckon it's too hard here to do it by hand.”

She was disappointed by this. “Right,” she said.

He could sense her sadness. He sighed again, capitulated in his way. “We could just…I don’t know, maybe cover her with brush? Lay some flowers, if you want.”

“Scavengers will come.”

“That’s nature,” he said, looking at her, putting the hair behind her ear. “Any wolf was gonna die like that anyway, one way or another.”

Mary Beth took a deep breath. She thought on this, and then she nodded her head. “Okay,” she said, believing him. Together, they took a moment to gather their calm, their consciousness. Then he stood, and he gave her his hand, and she took it and pulled herself up, dusting off her dress. He threw her gun over his shoulder. It felt heavier now than it had back at the swamps outside of St. Denis. She looked at him, incredible remorse on her face even still. “I’m sorry I wandered,” she said to him. “I didn’t think it was far enough for something bad to happen. It felt safe. Even after the other night. I swear, it felt safe.”

“I know,” said Arthur, touching her ear, looking around. “Don’t be sorry. I trust you. It could’ve happened anywhere. It could’ve happened back at the fire.”

“I scared you half to death though,” she said, smiling as she realized, touching his face. He looked at her. “The color’s all gone from your cheeks, Arthur.”

This nearly made him laugh, but truth be told his heart was still pounding in his skull a little bit, and he felt dizzy from the adrenaline. “I panicked when I heard the gun,” he said. “I did.”

“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” she said. She hugged him around his waist. He hugged her back.

“It’s okay,” he said, breathing in the smell of her hair, which no longer had any identifying scent or quality at all beyond just that of her hair, what she smelled like. It was its own thing now, its own comforting feature. She had gone off into the woods. Something bad had happened, and she saved herself. He couldn’t get his mind around it yet—why he wasn’t more concerned in the aftermath. It should have terrified him, and it had before, but now that he saw what had come to pass, it reassured him in remarkable ways. “Come on,” he said into her hair. “Let’s get moving.”

They covered the wolf in branches and piles of bramble. Mary Beth picked some lavender and golden poppies and set them on the top. It was a funeral. Arthur removed his hat and Mary Beth stood quietly over the little mound of flowers and nature with her hands cupped together, but she didn’t cry anymore. She just stood very still, very solemn, and said, in a quiet voice, “I hope your cubs find their way without you.”

Then it was done.

They packed up the horses very quickly. It was getting quite dark. But at a healthy canter, they made it back to the cottage in under an hour. All was quiet—nothing evil to discern. They hitched the horses, fed and watered, then they went inside, and Arthur lit the fire. The temperature had dropped quite a bit, but at least the sky was clear. It didn’t look like it’d be raining again anytime soon. Mary Beth had talked of baking her blackberry pie, but once they got inside, she seemed too tired. She made tea instead, with whiskey and sugar, like they’d had at Hamish Sinclair’s. They changed into softer clothes and sat down with blankets around their shoulders, warming their hands to the whiskey tea in front of the fire.

Arthur felt heavy now, now that the events of the day were over, but it still didn't feel done. He was heavy with the inclination to talk to Mary Beth. So much had come to pass between them, he realized, and they hadn’t talked—not really, not since Hamish's, not about what was going on. He realized that up until now, he hadn't wanted to say anything else. He'd just wanted to do, to be with her. So they'd just been acting, because it was immediate, and it felt good, and it felt normal, to let go with one another. He wanted to be with her. It all felt right with her, like he was set. But something was still unsolved. Something still hurt, made him scared inside, anxious for the days to come, bringing on his bad dreams, and she was the only person he knew how to talk to about it, and really the only person he could.

“Mary Beth,” he said after a little while.

She looked at him. “Yeah?” she said.

He sighed. “Can we talk?" He grazed his rough knuckles to her jaw. 

She smiled in her warm way and invited him to love her. He did. She nodded. She seemed to know just what he meant, as usual. “Of course, Arthur.”

 

Far away, back at camp in Shady Belle, Mrs. Sadie Adler was cleaning her gun on the porch, looking out over the swampy courtyard, how it shown bright in the pure night sky. Abigail came, sat beside her. She brought a little batch of whiskey, poured some into two tin cups. She gave one to Sadie, kept one for herself. They made a little toast, and then they said, “Cheers,” and they each drank. Used to the hard stuff, neither one of them flinched.

“Dutch asked about Arthur today,” said Abigail, swirling the liquor around in her cup. “Like I know what the hell is going on in that man's brain.”

“Fuck Dutch,” said Sadie, drinking. “He needs to worry about his own self a little more, and Arthur a little less.”

Abigail smiled at this. “I wish I had your guts.”

“You got more guts than you realize,” said Sadie. She rested her elbows on her knees, dropped her head a little. “How’s Jack.”

“He’s fine. Keeps talking about _Papa Bronte_ like he’s man of the year. Little shit.”

Sadie laughed. “I bet that gets under John’s skin.”

“It affects him,” said Abigail. “That’s for sure.”

A breeze came through. Somewhere, Javier was playing a strange song on his guitar. It made the air feel dreamy. “You ever think about leaving?” said Sadie. “This place. This fuckin _gang._ ”

“All the time,” said Abigail—without hesitation.

“Me, too,” said Sadie. “Don’t know where I’d go, but it’s like inertia, that’s what I’m learning. Like fast rapids on a fast river. You get going, you can’t stop. You start losing choices left and right. Then you paddle right into a fuckin tree.”

“I know what you mean,” said Abigail. “I been here almost five years. I know what you mean.”

“You got a kid,” said Sadie. “Ain’t it enough of a motivating factor?”

“You’d think,” said Abigail. “But John don’t see. He just don’t see. Or, if he does, he's too dense to realize what it means.”

“I hope you leave,” said Sadie, looking up at the stars. “You and John and Jack. I hope you leave and find better lives.”

“Thank you,” said Abigail. “Doubt it though.” She smiled, low and sullen.

They sat for a minute, listening to the music from Javier’s guitar.

“What do you think they’re doing?” said Sadie, drinking. “Arthur and Mary Beth, right now. You think they’re in _love_ yet?”

Abigail laughed, but she brought it all back down to earth. “Arthur is a good man," she said. "He deserves love. And Mary Beth is…well she’s a little weird, but she’s still got innocence inside of her. Just like he does. I think they fit. Though he's a fair bit older, I don't think that matters.”

“You see Arthur as innocent?”

“Not in any traditional way,” said Abigail. “I just mean like, in his soul. When I talk to Arthur, always, he’s happy to see me. He’s one of my best and oldest friends. He’s been through a lot. You know, he had a girl once, and a child.”

“That Mary? I didn’t know they had a kid.”

“Not Mary,” said Abigail. “Before Mary.”

Sadie straightened up, real surprised. “What happened?”

“They was killed,” said Abigail, finishing her whiskey. She looked down into the bottom of her cup, a dark place. “Both of them. It was before I got here, but John said it destroyed him, for a long time.”

“His child was killed?” said Sadie.

“Murdered,” said Abigail. “He was just four years old. Like Jack.”

“My god,” said Sadie. She looked out at the dried up fountain of Plantation Shady Belle. She felt overcome with emotion and the gut-wrenching sensation that she might cry. “I didn't know.”

“Most people don’t,” said Abigail. She picked up the bottle, refilled both their cups. “He don’t talk about it to no one.”

They drank some more, feeling like lead in their boots. The music went on, Javier playing a song neither of them knew. It seemed of the Spanish tradition. The bugs and the animals were loud, really loud, in the distant and immediate swamp. Karen stumbled by, said goodnight, went into the house and let the door slam shut behind her. She had looked sad, thought the women, her eyes lidded, drunk. Everybody worried about her because of what happened to Sean. It wasn’t like it was love between them, or maybe it was, but either way, you get to finding someone you like spending time with in this world—any time at all—and you lose them, that’s nothing easy to overcome. Ask anyone. Ask Sadie, Arthur, Hamish Sinclair, Abigail, Mary Beth, Javier. Ask Dutch. Ask Hosea. Any one of them. It’s a nightmare, losing someone like that. It’s bad dreams, and nothing so easy at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers,
> 
> Maybe you've noticed that I'm writing this story as fast as I can. I've been working hard, like a mad rush, because truth be told: I am very pregnant, and my due date is fast approaching. I hope to heaven I can finish before the baby comes. That's been my plan all along, but of course, inevitably, the story has drawn out some. If I don't finish in time, there will be a short hiatus, but I will do my best not to leave you hanging for too long, because I love writing this story too much. For now, keep looking for fast updates, and I'll keep you all posted on what happens. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. <3 -gala


	15. Homeward

She saw it in his eyes then, something showing—the sadness of Arthur Morgan. It lived quietly inside him. It was not obvious. It was so deep and his eyes were so blue and like pretty pieces of winter on the surface. You might miss it if you didn’t know what you were looking for. His stoicism was not obvious. Sometimes, he seemed to feel everything and you could see the disapproval or the frustration right there, so present and alive. It was just the sadness. How he just stayed real silent. Dumbasses thought this meant he was unintelligent. Like smart people always say everything they think and feel, like that's true or something. It's the opposite of true. He was calculating. Everything was a means of protecting himself though of this she could tell he was not fully conscious. Arthur's anxieties played out in small ways that were not apparent. He seemed to carry all of his fears inside his hands and he would shake them out and flex them constantly. It is how she knew he felt safe with her. Because he did this less. At present, though, he was wringing his hands around his cup of whiskey tea. Just wringing, and wringing. He was anxious.

She tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear. She held his jaw in the palm of her hand, gently till he looked at her. It was a wide and firm jaw, set very tightly. He was always chewing something, too, she thought. Another means of expending his nervous energy. That night he wasn't chewing anything but the insides of his cheeks. When she touched him, he stopped wringing his hands.

"You're anxious," she said. "What's wrong."

He sighed.

But then she panicked. "Wait."

This seemed to confuse him. “What?"

“Let me talk first.”

He straightened up a little, holding his whiskey tea, still now. He gave her his entire focus, which if you were not used to it, could be a little daunting. “Okay.” He nodded.

She took a deep breath. She set down her tea. She tucked all of her hair behind her ears as if this would somehow prepare her more readily for the moment. “I love you, Arthur,” she said, looking at him, a little shy. “It ain’t a fantasy. It’s very real. I need you to know that. Before we say anything else.”

He just stared at her. Just stared. It did not seem to be what he expected, but he responded with seriousness. “I love you, too.”

She swallowed and blinked her eyes, rapidly, feeling like a wild animal. “You do?”

This actually served to make him smile. “Yes. You think I give myself to women like that who I do not love?”

“No.”

“Well then, there you go.”

“Fine,” she said, recalibrating, smoothing her hands over her nightgown. It was the same one Hamish had leant her the other night. He'd said she could keep it, like a way of letting go. “But I can tell there’s something wrong. In your eyes. You're still anxious. What’s wrong, Arthur? Is it because of what happened today? I’m real sorry I scared you like that.”

He set down his tea then, heaved into a very heavy sigh. He turned toward her. He was wearing the night clothes, too, those leant to him by Hamish. He gathered her hands together, covering them entirely in his own. “No,” he said, very serious. “It ain’t because of today. I’m proud of you, for how you handled yourself with that gun. You took care of yourself back there. You're capable, Mary Beth, and I appreciate that."

She had never been told she was capable before, not like this, not by anyone but him. She was so deeply flattered. She wanted to cry, so she looked away at the fire because she knew that crying would start things over. It would make it hard again, because he'd have to comfort her, and at present, she wanted to comfort him. “Thank you,” she said. She looked back at him and smiled through all that emotion. “Though I prefer not shooting wolves to shooting them, if that’s okay.”

This was funny, she knew it would make him smile. “I know,” he said, and yes he did smile. Tired, though. “I know, and I appreciate that, too. Believe me.”

“Then what’s the matter, Arthur?” she said.

He sighed again, one of his huge, Arthur Morgan sighs. “It ain’t about you I wanna talk, Mary Beth. It’s us, and it's me, and my life.”

“What do you mean?”

“Earlier, on the river," he said, "right before we fell asleep, I was thinking about Sean, and what happened to him in Rhodes.”

The fire crackled loudly, spat a couple embers up into the flue. 

“He got shot,” said Mary Beth.

“That’s right,” said Arthur. “He got shot, and that could’ve just as easily been me. I was standing right there, right next to him when it happened. It could’ve been me. It could’ve been any one of us.”

Mary Beth said nothing. She didn’t have anything to say. She knew that it was true.

So he went on. “I heard you today,” he said, “when you said you didn’t wanna go back to the swamps. I heard that. I didn’t know what to tell you at the time, but now I know that the only thing to say is that when we do back, I got a big decision to make."

"A decision?"

"Yes. And I just—I feel I ain’t made many big decisions in my life. I kind of just let…inertia…wash over me, pushing me forward, one thing to the next, very little discerning. Hosea’s always telling me to stop, think, use my head, but I never really thought about what he meant before. I know now, this is what he was talking about. Choosing.”

“What are you saying, Arthur?” said Mary Beth. “You wanna leave the gang?”

He turned his head a little, stared at the fire. “Maybe,” he said. “This ain’t the first time I’ve thought about it, but it’s the first time I’ve actually considered it.”

“We don’t have to do that,” she said. “I was just talking before, just being me.”

He shook his head, glancing to the cracks in the wooden floor. “Don’t do that," he said. "Don't walk back on the issue. Don't pretend it don’t matter."

“I ain’t,” she said. “I’m just saying, I’ll stand by you. No matter what.”

“That’s just it,” he said. “I know you will. Right up until the end.”

“The end?”

He gathered up his thoughts then, was still staring at the floor. He had begun to trace circles in her palm with one of his thumbs. “You know what’s gonna happen,” he said, looking down at her hands. “The way this is going. You know."

“What do I know?”

He said nothing, but then he looked at her, very sternly. She came to his meaning, but slow.

“You mean me getting pregnant,” she said. “That’s what this is about.”

“Not all of it,” he said. “But some, yes.”

“I ain’t afraid of getting pregnant by you," she said. "I want that. I know what I'm choosing.”

“I want it, too,” he said. “I do. But it ain’t that simple.”

“Sure it is,” said Mary Beth. “My life has been filled with so much uncertainty up until this point. This is a certainty. I ain't impractical when it comes to this sort of thing, Arthur. I know the stakes. And I want you, and all the parts that go with it. I would rather be fat and pregnant with your eighth child, shoveling snow on a ranch in Minnesota somewhere than to spend one more day skinny and lonely in the swamps of Shady Belle, pining over imaginary boyfriends that I read about in books I steal from the general store. Do you understand?”

He blinked. At first, he really didn’t understand. He was surprised and almost amused by her confession. “Eight children?” he said.

She sighed. “Well, maybe not eight. I don’t fancy turning inside-out by the time I’m forty, but several. Maybe three or four. Maybe five. Hell, maybe eight. I don’t know. The point is, I ain’t scared. Why are you?”

He was searching her. She was doing that thing again—going fifteen directions at once. “It ain’t having kids I’m scared of,” he said. "Or, I mean, I got no idea what I'm doing, but it ain't that."

“Then what is it? Is it because of Mary?"

"No," he said, very clear.

"Then is it still because of Eliza? Of what happened to her and Isaac? Because I understand that. I do.”

“I know, Mary Beth.”

“I ain’t her, Arthur. This ain’t then. It’s a second chance. And you ain’t gonna fail me.”

“If I get shot, and I die, like Sean, like an outlaw, and I leave you alone, that’s failing.”

“You sound like you did the other night,” she said, shaking her head. “At Hamish Sinclair’s. But things have changed since then. If you’re so certain of your impending failures as a man, then why did you kiss me last night? Why did you give yourself to me? Then, and again today. Why are we doing this at all? Especially after you initially said no to me. I know you. You don’t just do things because they feel good, Arthur. You ain’t that kind of man. You have a code. You have a reason.”

“I kissed you last night because I realized I had a choice.”

“A choice?”

“Yes,” he said, real determined, almost like he was talking to himself. “I didn’t think much past that. It was enough. I had a choice, in you. You was the choice. I could choose you, be with you. That was a freedom for me to decide. I want you. I love you. That’s it. I ain’t never felt free to make that choice before. I ain’t never realized I had one. Not with Eliza, not with Mary. Not with anyone but you.”

The moonlight was coming in the windows now. It was glinting—off the glass, off his eyes in pretty ways. She didn’t know what to say. “What’s so different about me?” she said.

“You listen to me,” he said, without hesitation. “You just listen, Mary Beth. And you don’t wanna change me, not beyond what I wanna change in myself. And what you need, it’s something I can give for once—because it’s just me. It’s just me.” His voice broke. He was so earnest, serious. It didn’t come to tears, but it was close. “I ain’t leaving you. I said it last night. I meant it. I won’t leave you, and that includes via my getting shot by an ingrate Southerner or a lawman, or a gotdam Pinkerton. And that is what I wanted to talk about, tonight. My feelings is clear. This ain’t about what I feel. It’s about what we’re gonna do next. You and me. If that’s okay.”

Mary Beth got real quiet. She looked down at her tea. She picked up the cup, took a drink. It was starting to cool. She looked back at Arthur. She just said, “Oh.”

Arthur smiled at this. "I like your brain," he said. "Even if it ain't always obvious, the directions it's going."

She blushed. "Thank you."

"What do you want, Mary Beth?" he said.

“I thought I made that pretty clear,” she said.

“Besides me. Practically. In life. I know you want your window and your desk. Do you fancy being a outlaw forever?”

She shrugged. “No,” she said. “But like you, I ain’t never really had no choice before.”

“Let’s say you did,” he said. “What would you choose?”

She shook her head. She was all feelings, no plans. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe a life where we could just be us, just the two of us, together. Not living in a camp somewhere outside, with fifteen other people. Not always on the run. A home?”

Arthur nodded at this, like he understood. He took a long drink of his whiskey tea and stared at the fire.

“What do you want?” she said.

“I want a home,” he said, looking back at her. “Just the same as you. I ain't had one of those since I was a kid, but I ain't forgotten what it means.”

“How do we get one?” she said.

“We need to put some distance between us and here. We need money, but I have money. Money ain’t an issue.”   

“So the issue is distance?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “We gotta leave.”

She sighed. “Where would we go?” she said. “Back west?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “As much as I miss it out there, we’d have to get pretty far to the point we can stop looking back.”

“It’s terrible you’re all caught up in that business with Blackwater. You wasn’t even on that boat.”

“I know,” said Arthur. “But that ain’t the way it works, unfortunately. And they don’t want me for Blackwater anyway. They want me for Dutch, and I ain’t singing.”

“Of course you ain’t.”

“I was thinking more north.”

“North?”

“Don’t nobody know me there. Wisconsin, maybe. Minnesota.” He smiled at her.

“You know, I hear there’s parts of Wisconsin that ain’t changed since before the ice age,” said Mary Beth.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah. Like, it escaped it somehow. Like it's all these real beautiful hills and glaciers and things, under the ground, making shapes in limestone. Tons of rivers. Tons of farms and prairie, real romantic. I seen a picture of a farm from up there—all corn. Looks like it’s growing on steps. They got lily farms, too. I read that in a book. Something about the soil. No matter where we go, it’ll be prettier than Kansas, that’s for sure. And definitely better than the swamps.”

Arthur just stared at her, at her pink mouth as she talked. “Lily farms, huh? That sounds beautiful.”

“It is,” she said, taking a drink of her whiskey. “And I bet it smells so good. And I bet there’s tons of horses for you break, Arthur. Tons of land yet to be claimed.”

“You make it sound perfect,” he said.

“Well maybe it is,” she said. “Maybe it ain't. We won’t know till we get there.”

He was just watching her go on, feeling a little miffed but fascinated by her optimism, as it put sparks in his own.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. He breathed out. He was tired now. Tired of talking. He pushed the hair off her shoulders and leaned in to touch her neck and kiss her on the forehead with his eyes closed. He wanted to linger there for a minute, very calm, as he spoke. “We do gotta go back though,” he said, his lips still soft against her skin. “To Shady Belle. You know that."

"I know."

"Before we do anything. When it’s time, we’ll finish our business. We'll leave. But there’s people there that’s gonna be worried about us.”

“You're right,” said Mary Beth, smiling. He could hear it in her voice. “I know, Arthur.”

He took a very deep breath. “I will miss this place though,” he said.

“The cottage?”

“Mmhmm,” he said, very low. “It’s quiet.”

“Real quiet,” said Mary Beth.

She breathed and seemed so small beside him. He felt her getting closer. She set down her cup so they could be closer. Arthur had set his down a long time ago.

"What do you think everyone else is doing right now?” she said. “Back at Shady Belle.”

“Who knows,” said Arthur, kissing her temple, kissing her ear. He grazed a palm past her shoulder, undid one of the laces of her nightgown, then another, until her shoulder came free, and then he touched it again. The nightgown was much easier to remove than the blouses and the skirts. She sort of shuddered beneath his touch. 

He smiled at this. “You know," he said, amused. "You do that a lot."

“Do what?” she said.

“Shudder, like. It’s very endearing.” He touched his mouth to her shoulder, kissed it just fine.

She shoved him a little, in the chest, but she was weak now, and they were laughing. “I do not.”

“Yes you do,” he said.

“Well, maybe I’m cold,” she said. They were very close now.

He just exhaled, guttural, out the back of his throat as he kissed her neck. He was weak now, too.

“Make me warm,” she said, like a whisper, a surprise. She leaned into him, his mouth on the corner of her jaw. He felt her hands soft down the front of his chest. She undid the buttons there. She pushed the shirt off and to the floor. “Okay, Arthur?”

He felt his hands into her hair, tugged a little, until she tilted her head back, exposing her neck to him, like a kind offering, which he proceeded to study, and then to kiss, real shallow. “Okay,” he said into her skin.

She shuddered again. He took her to the bed, took off her nightgown, dropped it to the floor. He traced his hands all the way down the center of her body, like he was drawing all their energy together into one calm place. Then he lowered himself to the other end of the bed. She was holding her hands in his hair as he pushed up her knees, put his mouth on her, gentle. Just like that. He wanted to bury himself there, consume, but he went softly, easing her into it, because she was taken by surprise at first, and it took her a minute to settle. But then, the smells and the tastes and the sounds of her became too much, sparking inside him something primal. He let go, consuming now, just as he had set out to do. She lost her center to him. She was trying to be demure. But it was no use, and after some time of making her moan in the sheets, saying his name in her familiar voice, he was pleased with himself as she came so hard that her legs were shaking all around him, pressing against his ears. And she was very warm now, he thought, as he brought her down, bit by bit. She was warm. 

After that, he was inside of her in what felt like an instant, and together they were saying goodbye to Deer Cottage, and to their trip north, out of the swamps, moose hunting which resulted in no hunted moose. But who cares, thought Arthur as he moved in her. Anyone can hunt a moose. It ain't a pressing matter. It ain't like that. And Mary Beth had been right anyway, like she so often was. With only two mouths to feed, hunting a creature of such size and majesty was just being vain. 

As he finished inside her, his mind went numb and thankful and in the ensuing moments as they found peace together, and he was putting the hair out of her face and lying with her in that modest bed, he thought about that thing she'd said about the country up in Wisconsin. Lily farms, he thought. That was what she'd said, and cornfields that looked like they were growing on steps. Could that possibly be real? He turned to face her, asked her if what she was saying about the cornfields up in Wisconsin had been serious.

She was hazy as she looked at him, all flushed and freckled, kind of like mush. "You think I could make that up?" she said.

"Probably," said Arthur.

"It's real," she said, sticking her face in his neck. "I saw it in a book at the library in St. Denis. I'll show you, when we get back."

"I don't need to see it to believe it," he said. "I was just wondering."

"Well, I ain't lying," she said.

They slept then, for as long as their bodies would allow. And the next morning, they packed their things, and they left Deer Cottage, headed homeward. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END PART I


	16. The Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Part II: American Dreaming**

On the way back, they camped a few nights in the wild, and they spent one night back at the Winterson’s B&B in Emerald Station. Lawrence and Lizette were glad to see them again. They stayed up late talking and drinking brandy Old Fashioneds in front of the fire. The brandy Old Fashioned was a style of drink neither Arthur nor Mary Beth had ever had before. They were used to Kentucky Bourbon Old Fashioneds, which is what they served at the high saloon in St. Denis and also in Rhodes.

“Back in Wisconsin,” said Lawrence, muddling a piece of orange with the brandy in a mortar bowl, “they make them with brandy.”

“You learned that while studying medicine with your pa?” said Arthur. He took a drink. He liked the brandy Old Fashioned. It was awfully sweet, but he could stand it.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it true they got lily farms up there? In Wisconsin?”

Lawrence glanced at him over the top rim of his glasses. They were in the sitting room. Lizette had brought out a loaf of raisin bread with fresh butter. “So I hear,” said Lawrence. “But west of where I used to kick around, which was a port city on Lake Michigan by the name of Kenosha. You’d probably find some lily farms on the other side of the state though. Closer to the Mississippi. Peonies, too.”

“Peonies?” said Mary Beth, sounding breathless. “That must smell so good. Gosh.”

“I imagine it would smell quite good, yes,” said Lawrence, proper, smiling at her, very warm. He was taken with Mary Beth’s vivacious outpourings in conversation—innocently of course. More like admiration for a daughter he never had.

Going to sleep that night, Arthur and Mary Beth were a little boozed up and just lie there in the big, white bed, staring up at the big, white ceiling. He held her hand and counted the cracks in the stone, of which there were very few. The house was in strong condition. At some point, Mary Beth turned to face him, her head resting in her hand. She was too tipsy to read before bed that night and just wanted to be close to him. He opened his arm up to her so she could rest her head on his chest, and he closed his eyes.

“I ain’t been drunk like this in some time,” she said.

Arthur smiled at this. “Last time I got actually drunk, I lost Lenny at the saloon in Valentine. I nearly got arrested for my disorderly behavior.”

Mary Beth found this to be amusing. “How’s he doing?” she said.

“Lenny?” said Arthur, breathing out. “He’s fine. He works too hard, I believe.”

Mary Beth hesitated then, burrowed a little into his smell and his warmth. “I was just wondering. You know I think he’d taken a shine to Jenny,” she said, a little sad. “Before, back in New Austin. I didn’t know her that well.”

“Me neither,” said Arthur.

“Anyway,” said Mary Beth.

“Yeah.”

They breathed.

“I’m falling asleep,” said Mary Beth after a little while.

“Me, too,” said Arthur. “I’m beat.”

“How early do you want to leave in the morning?”

“Whenever we get on,” he said. “I ain’t in no hurry.”

“Sounds good,” she said. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

He turned his head, kissed her soft on the temple. “Goodnight, Mary Beth,” he said.

They fell asleep like that, with all the lamps lit. At some point in the night, Arthur woke up and went to turn them all down while Mary Beth slept soundly with her hair like a combed out nest on the pillow.

 

The next night, they rode into Shady Belle, very late, after one in the morning. This was by design. The camp was mostly sleeping. They were greeted by Charles on the perimeter, who was eating an apple and extremely relieved to see them. They hitched up their horses and were able to sneak inside, undetected by all but Sadie, who was up late on the porch, smoking a cigarette and keeping watch on the courtyard with her long shotgun in her lap.

She smiled at the sight of them. “You’re back,” she said.

“That we are,” said Arthur. “Anything to report?”

“Not really,” said Sadie, blowing out a lungful. “Kind of a dull week.”

“Well that’s all you can really hope for,” said Arthur.

Mary Beth reached into her saddlebag then, which she had flung over her shoulder. She took out a handful of blackberries, tucked in a handkerchief. “A souvenir,” she said, “for you.” She handed them to Sadie, who was outright surprised and flattered.

“Blackberries?” she said.

“They don’t grow down here,” said Mary Beth. “Not like they do up there in Roanoke Ridge. You work real hard. It ain’t nothing big but they sure taste good.”

“Well, thank you,” said Sadie, giving a nod. “You’re real sweet, Mary Beth.”

She blushed.

Arthur held the door. Together, he and Mary Beth went inside to the quiet, sleeping plantation home. They looked around. The walls, all crumbling, smelling of mothballs and beer and swamp. Arthur sighed. Mary Beth was looking around at all the shadows, listening to the sleeping girls and their breathing in the room up front with the windows. Mary Beth had her hands cupped together in front of her, tense, like she was seeing the place for the first time, and she was disappointed. “Come on,” he said, his hand on her lower back. “Let’s go upstairs.”

She smiled up at him, like she was trying. He felt such an enormous weight inside him now, again, pulling downward, anchoring him into nothingness, and he wanted to release it, float away. But once they got to his quarters, which were cozy and nicely kept, and they could see that Miss Grimshaw had been keeping it dusted, they both relaxed a little—the windows were wide open and it was not so terribly oppressive here. She lit the lamp on the little table by the bed and walked around the room with it, studying the pictures and things, the little jar of flowers that he kept to remind him of his childhood dreams. Arthur stripped to his drawers as it was hot, and he was exhausted. He sprawled as much as he could on the bed, which was small like the bed at Deer Cottage. He watched her walking around the room in her careful examination of his things and his life, and after a little while, he beckoned her to come over to him, which she did.

She sat down on the bed beside where he lie. She smiled down and he calmly took down her braids. She undressed, too, just to her pale chemise. She lie next to him, on the inside, closest to the wall and closed her eyes. He had a thing where he needed to sleep on the side of the bed between her and the door. It’s just what it was.

“I love you,” she said before they went to sleep. It was not the big white bed at the Winterson’s. It was not the simple beauty of Deer Cottage, or the odd romance of Hamish Sinclair’s loft. It was just their place, and she was slowly settling into what she knew and how it didn’t matter, none of it did, as long as they were beside one another.

“I love you, too,” said Arthur. He curled around her, held her. They slept hard and still as warm stones past morning break, into daylight.

 

In the late morning, Hosea was out walking the swamps, getting new air into his lungs. He noticed Sarah and Watson were back. Kieran was over there with them, brushing out Sarah’s mane and putting it into delicate braids. Watson was chewing on an apple core and looked neatly groomed herself.

“Kieran,” said Hosea. He went over, put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Arthur and Mary Beth—they’re back I see.”

“Yep,” said Kieran, feeding a peppermint to Sarah who licked his hand. “Got in late last night, according to Charles. Ain’t nobody seen them yet this morning though.”

“I see,” said Hosea.

“They must be pretty tired.”

“I would imagine so.”

“You could check the house?”

“Will do.” He patted Kieran firmly on the back then, gave him a little shake. “Keep it up, kid. You do a fine job with these nags. I mean it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kieran, a little bashful. "I was thinking of taking Arthur's old horse Diana for a ride today. Just to stretch her legs, maybe into Rhodes."

"I'm sure Arthur would appreciate that," said Hosea. "Just be careful."

"I will be. Thanks, Hosea."

Hosea went back to the house.

Inside, Karen was sitting at the table, playing solitaire by her lonesome with a cup of coffee and a piece of buttered bread. “Hi there,” she said.

“Hello, Karen,” said Hosea. “You seen Arthur or Mary Beth?”

“Nope,” said Karen, failing to look up from her cards. “Didn’t even know they was back.”

“I’ll check upstairs,” he said.

“Sounds good,” she said.

He walked by John’s room. The door was open a crack. Abigail was in there with Jack. They were reading a book out loud on the chair. “Morning,” said Abigail when she saw him, very bright and pretty.

“Good morning, children,” said Hosea. “What are we reading?”

“Oh, something with knights,” said Abigail. “I don’t know a thing that’s going on, but I’m trying my best.”

“Where’s John?”

“Somewhere around here. Chores, maybe.”

“You seen Arthur at all? Or Mary Beth?”

“I didn’t know they was back,” said Abigail. “But Arthur’s door is closed. Been closed all morning.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Bye, Uncle Hosea," said Jack.

“Bye, Jack. Don’t quit with the book-learning. It suits you.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

He pulled the door closed behind him, went to Arthur’s room. He took a deep breath and knocked. “Arthur?” he said through the door, gently. He knocked again. “Arthur. You awake in there?”

 

Arthur groaned. He reached over to the top of the hope chest by the head of the bed, picked up the cheap pocket watch he kept there. It was after ten. Mary Beth was barely stirring. He sat up, rubbed his face with both hands furiously, placed his feet on the floor. “Coming,” he said. Had it been any voice but Hosea’s he would have told them to fuck off.

He got up slowly, went to the door where Hosea was waiting patiently on the other side. “Morning,” said Arthur.

“Good morning,” said Hosea. “I’m sorry to wake you. I just saw your horses were back, and I was eager to make sure everything was okay.”

“Everything’s good,” said Arthur, leaning in the doorway. He crossed both his arms over his chest. “We just got in late. How’s everything with you?”

“Just fine,” said Hosea. “Just fine. How was your trip?”

Arthur smiled, real groggy feeling. “Oh, you know,” he said, like a joke. “Life-changing.”

Hosea reached forward, placed his hand firmly on Arthur’s shoulder for a moment. “Well, I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Me, too."

“I also wanted to talk to you about something. It’s not a pressing matter, but I think—”

He stopped himself short then. He was glancing past Arthur, into the bedroom, looking surprised.

Arthur followed his gaze. Mary Beth was coming over from the bed now, wide awake. She was shrugging one of Arthur’s shirts over her shoulders and pushing the hair out of her face, and when she saw Hosea at the door, she smiled, big and easy going. “Hi, Hosea,” she said, buttoning the shirt. “It’s good to see you.”

Hosea blushed, furiously, removed his hand from Arthur’s shoulder and stood up very straight. He seemed taken quite off guard. “Miss Gaskill,” he said. “I’m so very sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” she said, looking up at Arthur. “Morning, Arthur.”

He smiled down at her. “Good morning, Mary Beth,” he said. Then he glanced down at the wood grain of the old floor by his feet and sort of laughed. He started rubbing at his face again and looked up at Hosea and his old man’s chivalrous surprise. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” he said.

Hosea shook out his head a little, sort of like a dog, coming into a new realization. “Oh,” he said. “Right. Well, it’s no hurry. Take your time. I’ll be out on the balcony, with coffee. Just come find me when you’re ready.”

“Can do.”

Mary Beth was still smiling. “How are you?” she said to Hosea.

“Oh, I’m just fine,” he said. “Thank you. I know I’m an old geezer, Miss Gaskill, but you don’t need to worry about me.”

“Of course I do,” she said. “Don’t be silly.”

Hosea became bashful. He wrung his hands a little then, smiled at them both, looking somehow both immensely sheepish but also emotional—proud, maybe? “See you in a bit,” he said to Arthur. He nodded quickly, to Mary Beth. “Miss Gaskill.” Then he was on his way.

Once he was gone, Arthur closed the door. He had his hands on his hips. He started to laugh, scratching at the scruff on his face. “I never seen the old man blush like that before,” he said. “I think you near on gave him a heart attack.”

“Well, he obviously wasn’t expecting to see me,” she said, brushing her hair in the mirror by the foot of the bed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come to the door like that.”

“Nah,” said Arthur, waving her off. “I’ve known Hosea for over twenty years. He was gonna find out anyway.”

“I guess,” said Mary Beth. She looked over her shoulder then, as he was getting dressed. “What do you think he wants to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “I’ll find out, and I’ll tell you later.”

“I should probably go find Miss Grimshaw,” said Mary Beth, feigning exasperation. “I’m sure she has a whole list of chores for me to do, on account of my _relaxing vacation_ and all.”

Arthur laughed to himself. “She’ll go easy on you,” he said. “I got a feeling.”

“That sounds like a real nice feeling,” she said.

But Arthur got quiet then. He was looking out the window. He didn’t have a shirt on yet. He’d got distracted by the sights and the sounds from the outside.

“You okay?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m just nervous.”

Mary Beth understood this. She went to him. She regarded his size and his naked back, and she pressed into him, kissing the long, muscled spine, and the groove between his shoulder blades. She put her arms around him and felt him exhale. He was warm and he smelled good.

"I know I shouldn’t be.”

"It’s okay to be nervous,” she said, wanting to make him relax. She felt a hand down the front of his slacks, real casual, and she held him, then she worked him in firm strokes until he began to respond, and then he himself shuddered and leaned forward against the table on the palms of his hands. He hung his head, helpless to her. They were still in these desperate wanting stages in which their bodies were vessels to unveil and explore. She told him to turn around and face her, and he obeyed. He leaned back against the creaking table, and she dropped to her knees and undid his slacks and pushed them down and took him into her mouth. This was something she’d never done before, but she wanted to give to him, to just sit in worship, for a moment. He was a little surprised by her forward, gentle aggression but he didn’t protest. He held the hair off her face and seemed desperately curious as he watched her. And at some point, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back as she fell into a rhythm. He was breathing deep, making both boyish whimpers and deep, masculine noises that excited her, and after a little while, his grip on her hair grew tighter, and he told her he was very close, and then he pulsed into her, and she was very happy to finish him and ease him into a calm release and then she let him go, and she sat back on her heels, wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and waited until he opened his eyes, and then he sort of cradled her face in his big hands, and he looked down at her tenderly. He gave her his hand. She stood, and she helped button him up and she helped him with his shirt and his suspenders. He kissed her on the eyebrow, looked down at her and then kissed her knuckles with his eyes closed.

“Do I deserve you?” he said, sort of lighthearted, but she could tell he was not fully joking.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Please, Arthur,” she said. “Don’t start with that now.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It ain’t nothing to be sorry for.” She kissed his jaw and then she fluffed her hands through his hair and went back to braiding her own hair in the mirror at the end of the bed. He took a very deep breath and absorbed the good feelings inside his body, his head cleared by their casual yet intense intimacy—something he just was not used to. He rolled up his sleeves and put on his hat. He gave her a kiss and she was putting on her necklace with the turquoise stones.

“I’ll see you later,” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

He let her go. He lingered in the doorway a little, watching as she straightened the pleats of her skirt.

Arthur thought then about living in a house on a hill overlooking a vast prairie. He’d never had anything of his very own before. Not like this. Not even Mary. No matter how much he’d loved Mary, how she loved him back. It had been groundbreaking for him, as it was after the tragedy of Eliza and Isaac, and it made him think—just for a second, that there was life out there. There was something he was good for, still. That he could find a way to redeem his failures. But with Mary, it was never like that. It was never casual or easy. It was years that went by, and even still, it was never simple. There was always something getting in the way, some obstacle. Her father, this life. It came between them and wrestled her away on a continuous basis. Making her second guess, making her choose and question herself, the both of them, and what they knew. She liked the ride. She liked the thrill that it gave her. She was a good girl, and he was a bad boy. But that’s only the way she saw it, and he didn’t want to be that to her. He didn’t want to be that anymore. It was a necessity. It was not a choice. It wasn’t, and that was the thing that Mary Beth understood that Mary never could see: this life was not a choice. It never had been. Before now.

 

Arthur came out to the balcony. He found Hosea, reading from a book of detective stories and drinking a cup of coffee. There was a carafe and another cup, for Arthur, and a tin ash tray. The air was warm. The day was new and humid, but not as humid as it could have been. The flies were buzzing, nonetheless. Arthur took off his hat, hung it on the back of his chair, and then he sat down.

“Morning,” he said. He was still a little groggy.

“How are you, Arthur?” said Hosea, closing his book and setting it aside. “Good, I hope?”

“I’m well,” said Arthur, nodding. “Thank you. How are you doing, Hosea? How’s everything?”

“Calm enough,” said Hosea. He poured Arthur a cup of coffee from the carafe. “Of course the weather here leaves something to be desired, but I muddle through.”

“Good,” said Arthur, regarding the steaming coffee, taking a sip.

“Dutch is in St. Denis,” said Hosea, right away. “Scoping out something or other with Mr. Angelo Bronte. I can’t say I trust the matter one bit, but we’ll see what pans out.”

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?” said Arthur. “Bronte?”

Hosea stared at him, smiled. “Initially,” he said. “Yes. I am heading to the city this afternoon to discuss some matters with Dutch at the saloon, and I was going to ask you to go with me. But that’s no longer necessary.”

“You sure?” said Arthur.

“Absolutely,” said Hosea. “I’ll bring young Lenny instead. He could learn a thing or two, if he’s so inclined.”

“Okay,” said Arthur. “Fine by me.”

Hosea nodded, took a drink. 

“Is everything okay?” said Arthur, giving him a long, careful look. “It still seems like there’s something on your mind.”

“There is,” said Hosea.

"What's going on?"

“Tell me about you and Mary Beth,” he said, desperately interested.

Arthur felt his cheeks get a little hot. He wasn't really expecting this, though he wasn't sure why not. He leaned in on his elbows, took a sip of his coffee. “It is what it seems,” he said, wringing the mug between his hands.

“You seem happy,” said Hosea. “You seem together.”

“I am,” said Arthur. “And we are. It happened sort of fast, I guess. But to be honest, we’ve been friends for a while. The trip just put our relationship into perspective a little bit. That’s all.”

“Do you love her?” said Hosea.

Arthur sighed, squared up with him. “Yes,” he said. “I do. And strangely enough, she seems to love me back.”

“There’s nothing strange about that, Arthur.”

“Seems strange.”

“Why?”

“Well, she’s younger than me, for starters. Prettier than me. Smarter than me.”

“You’re smarter than you think,” said Hosea, finishing his coffee, pouring another. “I’ve always tried to get you to see that. Maybe she’ll succeed where I’ve failed.”       

“You ain’t never failed me,” said Arthur, serious.

“Not yet,” said Hosea, cheeky. “Are you gonna marry her?”

Arthur nodded, lit a cigarette from his pocket, offered one to Hosea, but Hosea declined. “When the time is right,” he said, leaning back in his chair, studying the tip of the cigarette. “We ain’t discussed marriage specifically, but we’ve discussed most else.”

This seemed to bring Hosea a great deal of surprise and joy. He smiled, placed a firm hand on Arthur’s forearm, which surprised Arthur. Hosea leaned closer to him over the table, spoke quietly. “That’s wonderful, Arthur,” he said. “I’m truly happy for you.”

Arthur blinked through the smoke, relieved, near on confused. He put out the cigarette in the ash tray. “Thank you, Hosea,” he said, fanning away some of the smoke, searching the moment, not sure how to proceed. “That means a lot to me.”

“You’re welcome,” said Hosea. “But I assume this means you’ll be leaving the gang. You and her.”

Arthur cleared his throat. He was looking right at Hosea and feeling Hosea looking right at him, right into his soul. He felt like a boy, but he felt okay. He felt safe. He looked down at Hosea’s hand where it was touching his forearm. He put his own hand on top of Hosea’s in a rush of gratitude. He sighed and closed his eyes. He nodded. Then he looked up. “Yes,” he said. “You know I can’t do it any other way, Hosea. You know.”

Hosea was nodding along, in a reassuring fashion. “Yes, I know,” he said. “And I want you to know that I think that’s real smart, Arthur. Real smart. That’s the first smart decision you’ve made in a long time.”

Arthur smiled at this. It was a dig but he knew it was meant to be a positive reinforcement. He also felt somewhat strange, still unsure of what to do or say. He shook his head. “I’m…scared, Hosea,” he said. “I got a conflicted feeling in my gut.”

“Scared of what?” said Hosea. “Not of being a husband, I hope. If I could do it, you certainly can. You’ll figure that out on the fly.”

“No,” said Arthur, almost amused by this. “No, not that.”

“Then what is it?

“I just—I ain’t sure what’s coming,” said Arthur. “And I don’t know how to handle…certain very delicate parts of this equation. I know how I feel. I know how she feels. We been through a lot this past week that’s made things very clear. I want her, and I’m making a tough choice here, because I cannot protect her here forever, nor can I protect myself. I mean, with everything, what else am I supposed to do?”

“You want children, I hope?”

“Yes, I do,” said Arthur, swallowing, thirsty. “I want that chance, Hosea. I blew it before. You know that. I destroyed a whole part of myself.”

“Arthur, you’ve got to let it go.”

“I am,” said Arthur, patting Hosea on the hand. “I am. But I can’t forget. Even if I can forgive myself for what happened to Eliza and Isaac, I can’t forget, and I ain’t doing that again. I ain’t making that same mistake.”

“It sounds like you’ve thought about this quite a bit,” said Hosea. “What’s the problem?”

Arthur sighed, heavy, shook his head. “Dutch,” he said.

“What about Dutch.”

“I keep coming back to him, even as he infuriates and confuses me to no end,” said Arthur. “These past few years. The killing. The revenge. Blackwater. I can’t—I can’t keep giving and giving and giving. Not when I don’t know what the hell is going on. I just can’t, not no more. Colm O’Driscoll nearly killed me for it. I ain’t taking that chance.”

“You leave Dutch to me,” said Hosea, very brisk.

“What do you mean?” said Arthur.

“I’ll talk to him. Today, in St. Denis. I’ll make him see reason, and if I can’t, then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I love you like a son, Arthur. That’s no joke. That’s the heartfelt truth. I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you, your happiness. I know how it’s been hard, what you’ve had to endure. I’ve always thought you’d be better suited for a quiet life, your own domain. You’re a good man, a smart man, and a loyal man, and you’ve come a long way, and I have always thought that with the right girl you’d find an outlet for your loyalty that makes sense.”

“What do you mean, an outlet that makes sense?”

“A family, Arthur,” said Hosea, shaking him up a little. “A real family, of your own.”

Arthur was deeply touched, filled with emotion in ways he could not describe or fully communicate. “I don’t—I don’t know what to say,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” said Hosea. “I just want to be clear. Do you understand everything I've been saying?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “I think so.”

“Good.” Hosea patted him on the top of the hand once, then removed his own hands to his lap and sat back in his chair. “Now, do you two have specific plans for the future, or is this all being played by ear?”

Arthur looked down into his coffee. “We was thinking of heading north,” he said. “Soon. I don’t know exactly when.”

“May I ask a somewhat personal question?” said Hosea. “You don’t have to answer."

“Anything.”

“Is there a chance, Arthur, that Mary Beth is already pregnant?”

It was like he’d read Arthur’s mind, the way he was looking at him, right into him. Arthur clenched his jaw a little bit and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t know how likely or exact, but yes.”

“So this could all be happening very soon,” said Hosea.

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “Like I said, I’m not sure.”

“And you’re thinking north?” said Hosea, serious. “Like what? Iowa? Wisconsin?”

"Exactly.”

“Very well.” He was looking down at his hands now, like he was thinking, calculating. “Have you talked to John?”

“Marston?” said Arthur, leaning in. “No, why?”

“You should,” said Hosea. “The two of you should discuss this together.”

“Discuss what?”

“Leaving.” He stared right at him, his eyes old and glassy, but pure. "Before it's too late."

“Leaving together?” said Arthur.

“Just think about it,” said Hosea, very warm and fatherly. He coughed once, into his shirt sleeve and smiled. “Talk to John. That’s all I ask.”

        

Meanwhile, Mary Beth was leaving Arthur’s bedroom, closing the door, when she happened upon Abigail in the hallway. Jack was there, with a handful of crayons and a small stack of paper. When Abigail saw Mary Beth, she became excited and hurried. She rushed Jack down the stairs.

“Go on,” she said. “Go find Miss Tilly.”

“Hey, y’all,” said Mary Beth. “How are you?”

“We're fine,” said Jack. “How are you,  Mary Beth?”

“Just fine.” She smiled. "Remind me, I got some blackberries for you two, picked right off the banks of the Kamassa River."

"I've never had blackberries before," said Jack.

"They're real delicious," said Mary Beth.

“Yes, they are,” said Abigail. “We'll enjoy them. Later. Now, go on, Jack. Like I said. I need to talk to Miss Mary Beth about something, so you run along, okay?”

“Okay, mama,” said Jack. “Bye, Mary Beth.”

“Bye,” said Mary Beth. She was a a little confused.

Once Jack was gone, Abigail smoothed the pleats of her skirt and tucked the loose hair behind her ears. She grabbed Mary Beth by the arm and looked around, real secretive, and then she tugged Mary Beth back into her room, closed the door, sat them both down on a couple of chairs across from one another by the open window.

“What’s going on?” said Mary Beth.

“Tell me everything,” said Abigail, lighting up.

Mary Beth almost started laughing. “Everything about what?” she said.

“About you and Arthur.” Abigail was leaning in real close, her elbows resting on her knees. “I know you two are together now. Tell me. Tell me all about it.” She was smiling so big and so bright and so pretty. She grabbed both of Mary Beth’s hands into her own. Mary Beth was blushing. She was flattered. She didn’t really know what to say.


	17. The Sons

“You wanna talk about me and Arthur?” said Mary Beth, looking down at her hands. Abigail was holding them real tight. 

“It’s so romantic," said Abigail. "I been hoping for this, Mary Beth.”

“You have?”

“Of course,” said Abigail. “The two of you together—you’re so right for each other. With the books and the poetry and all that. Now what happened on that trip of yours? Tell me.”

Mary Beth got a little bashful. "A lot happened."

“Like what?"

Mary Beth smiled and gave her a look. “How much do you think I'm gonna spill?"

"As much as you're willing."

Mary Beth's cheeks felt very red.

Abigail became tender then, and kind, like she was reading the moment. “It's no bother,” she said. “I'm just so happy for you. And I just—Arthur. He’s so…stoic, you know? So strong and silent. Mysterious. What’s he like, all close like that? I’m just being nosy. You don't have to tell me anything, but I got to ask.”

“He's just...Arthur," said Mary Beth, a little shy. She was embarrassed in a way. "You know?"

“Not really," said Abigail. 

Mary Beth was confused. She felt stupid all of a sudden, flustered. "Oh," she said, realizing. "I—I'm such a moron. I'm sorry, Abigail."

"What, you thought I slept with him?"

Mary Beth nodded, kind of sheepish. "I shouldn't have assumed."

Abigail laughed, at herself more than anything. She looked away, still holding Mary Beth's hands. "You got every reason to assume," she said. "And I ain't ashamed. Not no more. But I never took a turn with Arthur, Mary Beth. Not once. I swear."

Outside, you could hear people talking, getting to work on the day. The sounds of chickens and metal clanging. Mary Beth sighed. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be sorry."

"It's good to know, I guess," said Mary Beth. "Not that it really matters."

“We was only ever friends,” said Abigail, real earnest. “And it does matter. I understand. In any case, he's a different man now than he was when I met him. Things have changed so much."

"You mean for Arthur?"

“Of course." Abigail sighed. “You know, that year I got here, it was just a year or so before you got here."

"I know."

"You missed the worst of it. Lucky you. But back then, Arthur was...kind of a mess. You know about Mary Gillis?”

"Mary Gillis?" said Mary Beth. "Yeah. I mean, everybody does."

“Well, when I showed up, they had just ended things. For good. And he was so goddam busted up about it. I never seen a man wallow and brood like that, and with it, he was a fuckin derelict drunk.”

"A drunk?"

“Now don’t get me wrong,” continued Abigail. “He was a chivalrous drunk. He was still Arthur. Never raised his voice to no woman, certainly never imposed on no woman physically. But he drank, and he kept to himself. And when he didn’t, he was just getting in fuckin brawls in the saloons, and punching holes in pianos and getting thrown in jail for drunk and disorderly. Once when Hosea went to bust him free, he said he just wanted to die there. Wouldn't budge. Hosea literally put him on a salvaged barn door, tied it to the back of his horse, and drug him back to camp like a invalid. He made Uncle look sober that day.”

Mary Beth was surprised, but also somewhat amused. She didn't know why. It wasn't funny. But something about the image, looking back, knowing how things turned out, that made it less pressing somehow. ”Arthur punched a hole in a piano?” she said.

”Yeah,” said Abigail. “He did. Bloodied his hand something awful, too. But for all them antics, Arthur was never the type to buy a working girl. I mean, I'm sure he has, at one point or another, but as a general rule, he's got plenty of vices, it's just that none of them has ever been women."

"I know that," said Mary Beth. "I mean, he told me that."

"I was truly sad for him, in those days," said Abigail, "the better I got to know him, seeing how he'd been done. He didn't deserve that, getting so messed up over some uppity bitch trying to get above her station. Or, well, that's what Miss Grimshaw used to call her. Arthur has always been good to me and Jack. He protected us—that year John disappeared, he made sure we was taken care of, every day. He listened to me. He supported me. He's a good man.”

Mary Beth was just staring, listening. She was grateful for Abigail's honesty and her kindness and her earnest nature. “Thank you for telling me," said Mary Beth. "About you and him. And I'm sorry again, for assuming like I did. I guess I just got...kind of nervous."

“Why?"

“Because I ain’t so experienced.” Mary Beth looked away, out the window, to where the birds were singing. There was a quiet breeze coming in off the river now, too, cooling things down.

“That would never matter to Arthur," said Abigail. "And there's different kinds of experience. Trust me."

“I mean, it’s not like he was my first or anything," Mary Beth continued, "but he might as well’ve been, in some respects. I mean, a man like Arthur? I just got insecure for a minute that you’d—you know…”

“That I’d been there first?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, it ain’t true.”

Mary Beth smiled. She was, in truth, relieved, though she did not make a show of it. “Did Arthur ever propose to Mary?” she said.

“He did,” said Abigail. “He’d bought a ring and everything. And I believe she said yes at first, but then she broke it off. Kept the ring, too. Fuckin phony."

“Jesus Christ,” said Mary Beth.

“Yeah,” said Abigail. “But none of that matters now.”

“The drinking,” said Mary Beth. “Is that why he don’t get drunk much no more? But for seldom occasions, I guess.”

“Probably,” said Abigail. “It weren’t pretty.”

Mary Beth sighed.

“You really love him, don’t you?” said Abigail. “I can see it in your eyes. He's caught your heart. You worry about him.”

“I do love him,” said Mary Beth. “He’s easy to love.”

“It’s just so romantic,” said Abigail.

Mary Beth felt herself relax a little then. Her shoulders loose. She studied Abigail’s hands. They were clean. The nails were very clear. “He’s real giving,” she said, suddenly wanting to open up, to talk.

"Like how?" said Abigail.

“In all sorts of ways," said Mary Beth. "Generous. With talking, and touching. He never told me about that drinking thing, but I get why. It’s of no consequence. He told me so much else. Sad things. Real sad. He has all of these…layers. I see it sometimes, like he’s so nervous that I’m just gonna…disappear. He’s such a good man. He’s smart and his brain is so strong and it works so fine. I just want him to know this, you know? Sometimes I get the sense that he don’t love himself, not like he should. You know?”

“I get it.”

“I know people think I’m some sort of dippy idiot,” Mary Beth continued. “That all I do is walk around with my head in the clouds. But it ain’t like that with Arthur. It’s like having my feet on the ground for the first time, and not feeling like I gotta run from nothing. Like I’m safe. And I don’t just mean physically. I mean like—in my soul.”

Abigail was breathless, put a piece of hair behind Mary Beth’s ear in a sisterly fashion. “That’s beautiful,” she said.

“Anyway,” said Mary Beth, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. “I’ve talked enough about myself. You get it.”

“Has he asked you to marry him?”

“No,” said Mary Beth. “We ain’t discussed marriage. I think though—I think with Arthur, that’s sort of implied.”

“How many of his babies you gonna have?”

Mary Beth blushed. Her face got hot. She took back her hands to push the hair off her cheeks. “As many as I can.”

“He’ll be such a good daddy.”

“I know.”

Abigail sighed. She was so genuine in her happiness for them. She was this pure soul. 

“You know,” said Abigail. “John is—he’s starting to come around, and I think it’s a lot because of Arthur.”

“That don’t surprise me.”

“Yeah. After Jack got taken by that fuckin snake, Angelo Whatever, and the boys went after him in the city, John changed. It was like—on a dime. He listens to me now. He’s here. He reads to Jack, though he ain’t no good. He tries. It’s sweet.”

“You still love him, don’t you, Abigail?”

Abigail straightened her skirt, looked down at her knees. “Of course,” she said. “I’m all bluster sometimes, but inside, I am a woman like any other. I am soft for that man. And him coming around like this, trying to be better, it’s made me miss him like I never knew I could.” She looked up then, hardened a little, but seeming desperate. “Do you think I’m a fool, Mary Beth? For having faith?”

Mary Beth was surprised by the question, the outpouring. She didn’t know that she was worthy to answer, but she tried anyway. “No,” she said, being as honest as she could. “Of course not. If anyone knows John, it’s you, Abigail. And if you got faith in him and the man he’s becoming, that’s all that matters.”

Abigail sat up a little, smiling after this, like she was relieved and so gracious. Her eyes got full, glassy. “Thank you,” she said.

“Any time.”

She wiped a quick tear from her cheek now. More seemed to be coming. “Gosh, I’m such a dumbass,” she said.

“No you ain’t.”

“Don’t go telling no one I’m saying these things,” Abigail went on. “I can’t have them all thinking I’ve done forgiven John Marston.”

“Why not?” said Mary Beth.

“Because it’s none of their goddam business,” she said, smiling now, stopping her crying. She sniffled a little, held Mary Beth’s hand again. “You can know though, Mary Beth. You understand.”

“I will always try.”

“Anyway,” said Abigail. “I hope I haven’t scared the shit out of you here. I didn’t mean to cloister you off and force you to confess your love for Arthur, and then start going off about my own complicated carryings-on with John Marston.”

Mary Beth laughed. “It’s fine,” she said. “It saved me a trip to go see Miss Grimshaw.”

Abigail waved her off then and became exasperated. “That woman needs a vacation.”

“She definitely does,” said Mary Beth.

They sat together as the breeze came in through the window, blowing their hair, making the air smell good.

 

Outside, Arthur chopped some firewood. The exertion made him feel clean and strong. He said hello to Cain, patted him on the head, and he said hello to Tilly and to Jack. They were happy to see him, sitting together beside one of the covered wagons, drawing pictures of trees and people on paper with crayons.

He found John then, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette by the scout fire. He was silent and content, wearing a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up, staring off into some infinite distance all by himself.

“Marston,” said Arthur, coming up along side him. He had his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, his hat on to guard his face from the southern sun.

“Arthur,” said John, flicking his cigarette. “You’re back.”

“That I am.”

“How was your trip?” He sipped his coffee. “You look rested.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur. “And the trip was fine. Just fine.”

“Good," said John.

“What are you up to?” said Arthur. "You got plans for the day?"

They both looked at the fire. Somewhere nearby, there was a sound in the trees. A boar went flying through, squealing like an idiot.

“Nothing much,” said John, studying the tip of that cigarette. “It’s warm today. I was thinking of maybe heading out in a bit, fishing some.”

“You know any good spots?” said Arthur.

“A couple. Javier gave me some tips last week. Nice and shady." He finished his coffee down to the sludge, dumped that out to the earth. "You wanna come?” he said.

Arthur nodded, regarding the warm air on his skin. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?” He lit a cigarette.

“Sounds good," said John. "Let me just go grab my gear and tell Abigail.”

“She’s, uh, she’s up in the house, with Mary Beth,” said Arthur, smoking. “You mention it to both of them, okay?”

John gave him a look, interested. He smiled. “Okay.”

 

They cut through Scarlet Meadows, north of Braithwaite Manor till they found a nice shady spot down the banks from Clemens Point. It was nearby to where Arthur had gone fishing once with Kieran, many months before when the world did not yet seem like it was coming to an end. Hitching their horses, they went along in a comfortable silence, Arthur carrying the tackle, John carrying a crate full of beer, each of them with their fishing rods resting on their shoulders.  

They set up with their boots close to the water. John cracked a couple bottles of beer and passed one to Arthur who took a long drink. It wasn’t cold, but it was good. They cast their lines with the beer bottles stuck in the sand. They fished like that, for a while. After some time with nothing biting, Arthur took a deep breath, and then John glanced over looking expectant. He reached for his beer, took a long drink, set it back in the sand.

“So,” said John, rocking back on his heels.

“So.”

“What’s going on with you and Mary Beth?” he said. “She your girl now?”

“She is,” said Arthur.

John smiled, kind of sly, squinting past the sun. Arthur was looking out at the water. “That’s great,” said John. “I'm happy for you two. How’d it happen?”

Arthur sighed, gently spinning the reel. “The trip, north. It just kind of...put things into perspective a little bit. We met with some danger up there, a lot of beauty, too. She makes it easy.”

“Makes what easy?”

“Living,” said Arthur.

John was looking at him, like he didn’t quite catch his drift.

But something bit on Arthur’s line then. They both flung their heads to see. John got big with excitement and encouraged him on as Arthur dug back into his heels and reeled in hard. After a minute or two, Arthur pulled in a real sturdy Steelhead. It must’ve weighed fourteen or fifteen pounds, a delightful catch.

“Look at that!” said John as Arthur steadied the fish. “We can cook that one up for the both of us.”

“And we shall,” said Arthur, smiling. He was proud of this one. He gave it a nice, hearty shake. 

Once it quit the fight and its gills went steady, Arthur wrapped it up in a big cut of paper and went over to Sarah, stashing it on the back of her saddle. He dusted his hands, went back to the lake, picked up his beer and drank. He gestured to John, then to the water. “Your turn, brother.”

“I can’t top that,” said John, recasting.

“You never know until you try,” said Arthur.

John continued fishing. Arthur finished his beer, decided to cast out one more time. It was a fine temperature in the shade. Not too humid. The day felt good.

After a little while, John spoke. “Hey,” he said. "Arthur."

“What’s up.”

But then John got stopped up. He seemed stifled. He seemed like he was going to say something, something big and important, and then he choked.

“You were saying?” said Arthur.

“I just—I been thinking.”

“Thinking about what,” said Arthur.

“Thinking about…that year." He got quiet, lowered his voice like he was embarrassed. "That year I spent away. How it—how it weren’t right. How angry you were. After what happened to Jack, I been thinking about it a lot.”

“Is that so,” said Arthur.

“Yeah,” said John. “It is. And I just—I’m glad you’re here, with me now. So I can tell you.”

“Tell me what.”

“That I’m sorry,” said John.

They got steady, together. Arthur looked at him, but he was looking at his boots, in the sand. The fishing rod was sagging. He had all but abandoned it. Arthur pulled in his line, set the rod against his shoulder. “I appreciate that,” he said.

John swallowed something, hard, glanced up at Arthur very seriously, as if ashamed. “You took care of her,” he said. “While I was gone. You helped me get Jack back. You done nothing but look after me and mine over the years, and I just—thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur felt full up, heavy and still. He nodded, adjusted his hat, looked back out to the water. “You’re welcome,” he said.

“I just—” John continued. “At the time, I was so inside my own head, you know? I couldn’t see straight. I never understood why you were so goddam angry. Why the hell you cared so much.”

Arthur looked down at his boots.

“But I get it now,” said John. “I get it.”

“What do you get?” said Arthur.

“It wasn’t long after Mary, you losing her. What that did to you, and how it drug up bad things. Real bad things, Arthur. Maybe you don’t think I saw, but I remember. And seeing me, running out on Abigail, this little baby—it was like me, repeating your old mistakes, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Marston,” said Arthur. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Eliza,” he said. “And Isaac.”

Arthur blinked, quickly, finished his beer, tossed the bottle to the water. He looked down. He said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” said John. “Arthur, I am.”

“It’s okay,” said Arthur, squaring up with him. “You’re a better man now. That’s what matters.”

“You are, too,” said John.

“Yeah well,” said Arthur, “Mary Beth keeps trying to convince me of that. I keep telling myself, if she thinks it’s true, then true it must be.”

They looked at each other, real earnest, like brothers.

Then, John lurched toward the lake as something bit on the line. “Oh, shit,” he said, nearly stumbling into the water. He steadied himself, reeling in perhaps a little too hard.

“Ease off the reel, Marston,” said Arthur. “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna break the line. Ain’t you fished before?”

“It’s strong,” said John.

“Guide it in,” said Arthur. “Real easy. _Easy._ Like that. There you go.”

“Like that?”

“Yep,” said Arthur, giving him a long look as he finally got the damn fish under control. “Patience is not your virtue.”

John smiled. “You’re right about that.”

He brought in the fish. It was another Steelhead, as big as Arthur’s catch, maybe bigger.

“Now look at that,” said Arthur, clapping him on the shoulder. “You did it. Nearly all by yourself.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” said John, but he was joking. He wrapped the fish. Together, they decided to call it quits. They built a little fire. Arthur cleaned up and fileted one of the trout, sprinkled it with salt and a little bit of ground pepper. He pan-fried it while John led the horses over to the water and opened a couple more bottles of beer. He came back and sat down across the fire from Arthur. When the fish was done, Arthur served them both. It was a fine lunch.

The sun was getting long over the water by now. It was afternoon. They leaned, looking at the water with their legs straight out. Some canoeists went by, a man and a woman who looked happily in love.

After a little while, Arthur spoke. “So,” he said. “How’s it been going. With Abigail.”

John sighed. “It’s going,” he said. He sat forward, plucked a couple long blades of grass from the earth, began shredding them between his fingers. “I been trying to get back there, you know? To where it was when it was good. She even looks at me now. Sometimes like she used to.”

“And how’s that?” said Arthur.

“Like she can stand me.”

Arthur laughed.

“How’s it with Mary Beth?” said John.

“It’s new, but we already know each other pretty well. So it’s steady, too.”

“I mean, the two of you? You’re perfect for each other if you ask me.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because,” said John. “She’s kind of…you know.”

“She’s kind of what?” said Arthur, sipping his beer.

“She likes the things you like.”

“Which are?”

“Writing,” said John, tossing the pieces of grass to the fire. “Words and drawings and stories and all that. I think a girl like her, especially in a life like ours, that’s one in a million, Arthur. And she’s nice to boot.”

“That, she is,” said Arthur.

“Pretty, too.”

“You wanna marry her?” said Arthur. “Or, shall I?”

John laughed. “I’m just saying.”

“I know,” said Arthur. “And I appreciate it.” He finished off the beer. John popped the top off another, handed it to him with an absent mind. Arthur thanked him, cleared his throat. “You ever think about leaving?” he said.

John cracked another open for himself. “Leaving Shady Belle?” 

“Leaving the gang,” said Arthur. “Packing up your family, getting lost.”

John paused, gave him a look, curious. “Have you?”

Arthur nodded, looked back out toward the water. He took a long drink. “Yes,” he said. He could almost picture it now. The more he said it out loud, the more real it seemed to become. “We are leaving," he went on. "Mary Beth and me. I don’t know exactly when, but soon. That's why I asked.”

The world seemed to get real quiet around them. If you listened close, you could hear the sounds of nature, birds and bugs and rushing water. “You and Mary Beth?” said John. “You’re gonna leave?”

“That’s right.”

“What’ll you do?”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur, peering down into the bottle. “Anything." He looked up, looked at John. "You know, you could come with us.”

“Me and Abigail and Jack?”

“That's right," he said. "You could come along, and our luck might be that much better.”

“You think?” said John. He was staring at Arthur, staring at him hard, listening really close, rapt.

“I do,” said Arthur. “Between you and me, we got a lot of know-how, plenty of skill. Mary Beth and Abigail, they’re capable women, and little Jack, well he won’t be little forever.”

“What are you thinking?” said John, taking a long drink. “Buying a ranch or something? Headed back west?”

“Not west,” said Arthur. “No, there’s too much unfinished business back there for us.”

“Then where?”

“North,” said Arthur.

“North?”

“The Midwest.”

This seemed to concern John at first. “I don’t wanna go back to Chicago. There's nothing there for me, Arthur.”

“Not Chicago,” said Arthur. “No, closer to the Mississippi. Wisconsin, maybe.”

“I ain’t never been to Wisconsin,” said John.

“Me neither,” said Arthur. “But I know somebody who spent time there in his youth, and I think there’s a life to be made. An honest life.”

John finished his beer. He chucked the bottle. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees. He seemed torn and contentious all of a sudden. Real young, thought Arthur. Still searching, cynical and unsure. “You really think we could make it work?” he said, looking at Arthur. “You and me? After years of living outside the law.”

“I ain’t saying it’ll be easy,” said Arthur. “It’ll take…patience. But it’s a possibility, and I think between the two of us, along with the girls, we could get it done.”

John nodded along. He was thinking about it. He was. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“I have,” said Arthur. “In truth, I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I just never had a reason before.”

“You talked to Dutch? Hosea?”

“Only Hosea,” said Arthur. “He supports it. It was his idea I come talk to you.”

John hung his head. He closed his eyes. “And Dutch? What’s he gonna say?”

“The way I see it, John, we do this, he don’t have much of a choice.”

John sighed, real big. He was picking at the grass again. “This whole thing—it’s crazy,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Everything that’s happened,” said John. “Since Blackwater. I mean, how the hell did we end up in the goddam swamps?”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “But that’s part of the reason I need to get Mary Beth out of here. It’s too much goddam uncertainty for my comfort.”

“Is she pregnant?” said John, looking at him, in earnest.

Arthur took a drink, looked down at his hands. “She could be,” he said. “I don’t know. If she ain’t now, she will be soon. And I just—after what happened to Jack. That was a best case scenario. You realize that, John, don’t you? It could’ve been a whole lot worse.”

“You mean like, not getting him back?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

John straightened up then, his jaw real firm. The day was already getting on. Some ducks and geese had come to float in the water. The fire was low. “What does Mary Beth think?” he said.

“She’s ready,” said Arthur. “She don’t push me, but I know she’s done with this place. It ain’t for her.”

“It ain’t for Abigail either,” said John. “And it definitely ain’t for Jack.”

Arthur sighed. Together, they watched the ducks, cleaning and pruning their feathers in the dark water. They thought about life, and madness, and what it would take to get gone with the wind.

“Let me talk to Abigail,” said John.

Arthur nodded, finishing his beer. “You do that.”


	18. The Storm

That night, a storm rolled into the swamps. It was big, and the black sky ripped open then stitched back with huge lightning deformities and the whole world filled with the sounds of the thunder. Arthur and John were taking a long time to get back from their fishing trip. Mary Beth was reminded of the storm up near O’Creagh’s Run and was struck with anxiety and could not bear to be alone. So she sat in with Abigail and Jack in their room, and Jack had fallen asleep already to the sounds of the storm, while Mary Beth sat by the window, trying to read, but it was no use. Abigail sat knitting quietly, lacking in distress. Sometimes, she would hum little songs. Mary Beth didn’t understand how she could be so calm, but she did not feel like making a big deal or flying up with worry. That was a nuisance. So she just stayed quiet.

The rain was coming down hard. She knew they’d probably built a tent somewhere to wait things out, or maybe they’d stopped in Rhodes to have a drink at the saloon. They were grown men, used to weather. They were smart. They were okay. Her instinct was to get on her horse and go out and try and find them, but she knew that was a dumbass idea of which nobody, not even her conscious mind, could approve. Hosea, Lenny, and Dutch were in St. Denis. Out on the perimeter, getting battered with the rain, were Charles, Bill, and Sadie. She’d seen Kieran ride off sometime in the early afternoon on Arthur’s old horse, Diana, but she didn’t see Diana back with the others now, and she thought it could have just been she was hidden, but Mary Beth was worried he had never made it back—that he, too, was out there, somewhere, festering in the storm. Karen was downstairs, snoring drunk, and Tilly was asleep, too, and Molly was in the other room, and about an hour before, Mary Beth had gone in to see if she’d wanted to come join her and Abigail, but she was not interested. She was not interested in the other women of the camp at all.

At some point, outside, they heard a sort of ruckus. It was Micah and Pearson, and they’d gotten into a sort of spat. Mary Beth spied while Abigail just rolled her eyes, until Charles came slopping in out of the surrounding trees, up to his knees in muck, and he clocked Micah over the head with the butt of his sawed-off until he was all but crawling back to his tent. Pearson had already taken a bad hit to the jaw and was rolling around in a puddle, holding his face. Charles checked on him and hauled him back to one of the covered wagons. The rain was starting to slow down now. The storm finally moving over the water. Mary Beth could feel her chest physically loosen, and at some point, she must have sighed so loud that Abigail looked up, set down her knitting, and became concerned.

“You all right?” she said.

“It’s just this storm,” said Mary Beth.

“You worried about the boys? They’re fine in this, Mary Beth. It’s just water.”

“I know,” said Mary Beth. “I just—there was a storm when we was up north. Some bad stuff happened. I’m feeling anxious from it.”

“What happened?”

Mary Beth kind of glanced out the window where Sadie was coming back to the house with a lantern. She told Abigail about what had happened, with the Murfree Brood. Abigail didn’t know who they were, but she instinctively understood the concept of backwater murderers. When she saw how it affected Mary Beth so, she seemed to get an idea, and then she reached under the bed and took out a bottle of bourbon. She poured them each a short glass and said, “Let’s go out and sit on the porch. Get some fresh air.”

So they did.

 

Meanwhile, Arthur and John were holed up in Arthur’s tent—which was actually Hamish Sinclair’s tent—on the shore just north of Braithwaite Manor, passing a bottle of rum they’d found while out exploring the river banks of the Lanahachee. The storm had snuck up on them pretty fast, but they were not strangers to this sort of adversity in the weather, and in some ways, it made it feel like old times.

Their talk on the river had rekindled them as friends again in unexpected ways as they remembered what it was like to just exist in cooperation with one another. Sometimes, running with Dutch was like a competition, in which the concept of loyalty took strange shapes and would phase in and out of importance, focusing all your energies inward, depending on what exactly he had planned, and his chimeric brand of expectations for the day. Over the years, as Arthur got older, he began to feel the lack in the age difference between himself and Dutch, and how Dutch was filled with idealism that had once appealed to him on the level of youth and poverty of the soul, but this had ended. Spending time with Mary Beth, to whom he could actually communicate his feelings and frustrations without fear of being doubted or belittled, and now spending time with John, which was uncomplicated and natural in major ways, he began to see just how little need he had left for Dutch’s philosophies of salvation.

Still, he dreaded the conversation. He had a deep-seated guilt inside him, typical of the eldest child. Even as Dutch was not his father, and he never seemed as such, it was a paternal role he had played in Arthur’s life at a very young and vulnerable age. Arthur often felt mixed up. He did not feel free. He seemed to miss a life that he could no longer remember and possibly had never experienced at all. At some point, John went out to patrol the perimeter of their camp, out of instinct, and Arthur took out his journal to try to wittle away at these feelings he was having.

 _If I listen to Hosea,_ he wrote, _and that is all I have ever strived for, then I am doing the right thing for myself and for the love I have found, so unexpectedly, while traveling north with Mary Beth. There is a nice Sister in St. Denis—Sister Calderon—to whom I should call for further guidance, maybe. I am sure she would encourage me to commit acts of goodness, the only acts of which I can presently identify being those that involve leaving Dutch and starting fresh with a life that I can be proud of, far away. I never been a religious man, and I don’t fancy becoming one, but sometimes, looking up at things don’t feel so bad. It’s raining here. I hope Mary Beth is not too worried. It reminds me of that bad night up at O’Creagh’s Run when everything felt hopeless for a while. But it turned out that night at Hamish Sinclair’s may have be the first night of my entire existence. Here I go, sounding like a teenager again. Who knows. In any case, the rain seems to be letting up some, and we’ll ride out of here as soon as we’re able. I hope she’s okay. She needn’t worry, but I think she does. It’s so endearing. I just need a ring, then I’ll marry her. I will. That is, if she don’t get too sick of me first. I am confident she won’t, and that I am a fool for even having written this, but we shall see._

When John got back, he said the sky looked like it was calming down. Arthur put away his pencil and his journal into his pack and got up to start putting things away onto his horse. It was nearly midnight, but they decided to ride in anyway. On their way south, past Braithwaite Manor, they ran into a couple stranded klansmen who looked like they’d got caught in the rain. One of them asked Arthur for a lift into Rhodes and caught a boot to the face while John dispatched of the other with the butt of his shotgun. It was too late to start outright murdering, and neither Arthur nor John was in the mood for bloodshed, so they ditched them unconscious by the side of the road, stole their clothes and valuables, which they tossed into the swamps on their way into Shady Belle. They didn’t want to go back to the girls with blood on their hands if they could avoid it, no matter the sort.

They got into camp about half past one. Mary Beth and Abigail were on the porch, drinking whiskey with Sadie. The rain had stopped, and the yard was sloppy. Cain barked as the men got in, and Charles echoed a welcome as they hitched their horses up with the others. When the women on the porch saw what was going on, they all rose up to say hello, and Mary Beth tossed her whiskey cup and then hitched up her skirt and took off through the mud of the lawn and ran straight into Arthur’s arms, colliding with him hard so that he stumbled back a few steps as he caught her, mid-air, her legs wrapped around him tight.

“Hey,” he said, real low, and she tucked her face deep into the scruff and curve of his neck and took a long, deep breath. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“I know,” she said.

He kissed her on the temple and carried her all the way back to the house. At some point, he turned back to look at John, gave him a sturdy nod.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” said John.

“Sounds good,” said Arthur.

“Night, lovebirds,” said Sadie, tipping her hat.

Arthur smiled, but Mary Beth was very weary and would not even bring herself to look up from his collar.

They went inside, went up the stairs, to Arthur’s room. He closed the door, still holding her.

“I’m sorry we got so held up,” said Arthur into her hair. “With all the lightning, we didn’t wanna risk it.”

“It’s okay,” she said, still hanging on.

“You were worried,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know I’m overreacting. But the storm.”

“I know.” He sighed, deeply, pushing the hair off her shoulders and off her face. She looked at him, her eyes drooping. She was tired, he could see. “It’s been a long time since I had someone worrying about me like this.”

She just smiled.

“I don’t want you to worry,” he said, “but I will admit, I like coming back from somewhere, anywhere, to you.”

She looked like she might either fall asleep or start crying. She kissed him instead, revived somehow, and he kissed her back till it turned passionate. Hurried, they undressed each other piece by piece and made love in the bed, full of wanting and relief at being together again. She begged him for his seed and told him stories about their future lives. He said nothing—strong and silent—just loved her, obeyed her, listened to her, until he was done and loose inside of her, and they went slow, then very still, and he fell asleep almost immediately with her running her fingers through his rain-damp hair, and he was sinking like a heavy stone with her smells and her hair and her skin all around him. He was safe.

 

After Arthur had drifted, Mary Beth slipped away, wrapped in a sheet, and she went outside to pee. It was quiet out there, besides the weird birds and the nighttime noises of the swamps. The whole camp was asleep and at peace around her, and she could hear Pearson snoring in one of the covered wagons and Cain having his whimpering puppy dreams on the porch. What would become of her, of them, of this place, this magical palace of Americana and dying dreams? She turned around to go inside.

But then, she realized she wasn’t alone out there. She saw Sadie. It was a surprise that she was still awake. Did she ever sleep? She was way out in the mud, close to the water, flinging knives at a Tupelo tree and crying. She was unaware of Mary Beth’s presence, stifling her tears to her sleeve and angrily trying to hide it though as far as she knew, there was no one there to see her.

Mary Beth was filled all of a sudden with an indescribable sadness and a huge sense of pessimism and fear. What had become of them? It was terrifying. Sadie was so tough and so strong and so mean sometimes, like one of the men almost. It was easy to forget that she was  a widow. 

Mary Beth went back inside then, to Arthur. He breathed steadily in his sleep, on his stomach, face buried in the pillow. So peaceful and long and big and full of life. She tried not to think of Sadie, though it made her guilty, made her sore. She placed her hand on Arthur's wide, warm back, absorbing his presence with her own. She hadn’t talked to god since Kansas City, but that night, she decided that she would do it again. She had a reason now, making her burn. She just thought, _Let him be okay._ Let him be okay. Please? And that was all, and then she turned down the lamp on the windowsill, and she lie down beside him in the quiet sheets. She closed her eyes. She waited.

 

Meanwhile, John and Abigail lie together in their bed not far away, with Jack asleep on his cot by the window. Abigail had fallen asleep as well a little while before, but John was still worked up from his conversation with Arthur by the river. He was a simple man and his mind could change quickly, and he knew now how right Arthur had been, how close they were to freedom if that is what they so chose in this world. He was filled with terror and excitement, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Abigail breathing by his side. It was the first night they had slept in a bed together in a long, long time, and he knew this had to mean something. Something big. He had almost forgotten what she felt like, how small she was, how much he actually loved her, needed her. Without her, he was just a fuckin balloon, blowing around, getting caught in bad places and nasty heights and horrifying situations in which he kept facing death, always.

He was conflicted, too, with irrational anger for Dutch. It was huge and consuming him, this anger at having been somehow swindled out of a life he could respect, and yet he also knew that this was not Dutch’s fault, that he needed to take responsibility for his own bullshit, and this was a crippling dilemma. He was a goddam idiot, and it was time for him to see this for what it was, accept it, and make a choice. Arthur had already made his choice, which was monumental in scope, thought John, considering the fact that Arthur, of all the people he’d ever known in his whole idiotic life, had always seemed so set in his ways—more so than anyone, it was remarkable. To see him moving forward like this. It was almost enough to give John hope for a future he had never even considered before, let alone considered as a real possibility for himself and for his family.

Abigail stirred then, like she could sense his epiphany in her subconscious dreams. He turned onto his side to face her, cupped her hands in his own. She didn’t wake. He felt the nerves building inside of him. What was he so afraid of? When he realized that it was nothing, that was when he finally felt tired, and he went to sleep.

 

The next morning, Dutch and Hosea met out on the upstairs balcony of the high saloon in St. Denis. The air was clean and crisp, cleansed from the storm, with the sun coming down and drying the streets, making beautiful colors in the foliage. Dutch was reading the paper when Hosea came out, smoking a cigar and nursing a cup of coffee with added cream. Lenny was downstairs, in a poker game, as the ensuing discussion between the camp elders did not concern him. Hosea took his seat, poured himself a cup of coffee, while Dutch took a puff off the cigar, ashed it into a crystal ash tray on the table. All around them were the sounds and sights of the bustle in the city. The clanking of the trolley cars, the horse hooves on the cobblestone. Elegant women spoke in French accents while their American suitors smoked by their sides. Hosea sipped his coffee, surveying all the morning held in store. He slouched back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other and sighed.

“A fine day,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Dutch. “As soon as young Lenny finishes up the pot downstairs, we should head back to camp.”

“That reminds me,” said Hosea, taking a sip from his cup. “Arthur and Mary Beth returned from their hunting trip, the night before last. ”

Dutch glanced up, over the top of the paper. “You’re just telling me this now?” he said.

“It slipped my mind,” said Hosea, smiling.

“Well, it’s about time,” said Dutch. “I was starting to worry.”

“Me, too,” said Hosea.

Dutch went back to his paper and his cigar. Hosea sipped some more of his coffee, set down the cup, and lit a cigarette. “We need to talk, Dutch,” he said.

“I know,” said Dutch, shaking his head. 

“Do you?"

“I know you’ve got feelings about this…Bronte business,” he said. “It ain’t my cup of tea either, Hosea, but we’ve got to play the hand we’re dealt here. Just...trust me. I'm working on a plan. When it comes through, you'll see.”

“This isn’t about Bronte,” said Hosea, smoking, staring off the balcony into the blue sky. It was filled with smog. “Though I do have opinions about that as well. We can cover those back at Shady Belle.”

“Well then, what do you want to talk about?” said Dutch.

“I want to talk about Arthur.”

“What about Arthur,” said Dutch, again consumed with his paper, sipping his coffee.

“Arthur and Mary Beth,” said Hosea.

“What about Arthur and Mary Beth.”

“They’ve found love.”

Dutch glanced up, curious, surprised. “Excuse me?” he said.

“They’re together,” said Hosea, smoking. He was looking right at Dutch now. “It’s serious.”

“How serious?”

“They’re gonna get married,” said Hosea, almost casually, “and they’re gonna have a family.”

Dutch set down his paper. He leaned forward with his hands folded together on the table. He looked confused, hurt even, like he couldn’t wrap his brain around what he was hearing. “Is she pregnant?” he said.

“That much is unclear,” said Hosea. He smoked, ashed the cigarette into the crystal ash tray on the table. “She could be.”

“I’m—this is news to me,” said Dutch, looking down at his hands. He was shaking his head, exasperated, like he’d missed something, something huge. “Arthur and Mary Beth? When did it happen? All on that trip of theirs?”

“According to Arthur, it was latent for a while. The trip brought it to the surface.”

Dutch sighed. He stared off into the distance, past Hosea, into some infinite nothing. “I did not know,” he said. "How is it possible that I did not know?"

“I didn't know either,” said Hosea. “Not until he told me.”

“He told you?”

“Only after I asked him, of course. Yesterday. Arthur isn’t a particularly forthcoming man when it comes to his personal life. You know this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“There is a change coming, Dutch,” said Hosea. He smoked. “A real change.”

“What sort of...change?” said Dutch, softly, still staring past him, real far away—almost like he knew.

“That is what we need to talk about,” said Hosea.

Dutch blinked, looked back down at his hands, which he flexed and studied for a moment. Then, he fussed with the ring on his finger, and he looked up. They met eyes, seriously. Hosea lifted his chin, still slouched, still smoking. For the first time in many months, he felt good. He had Dutch's attention. For the first time in a while, Dutch was listening. 


	19. Poison Arrow

“What exactly is going on, Hosea?” said Dutch.

Hosea sighed. He ashed his cigarette, smoked, put it out in the ash tray. Somewhere nearby, you could hear the newspaper boy, calling out the headlines for the day. Dogs were barking. There were several other patrons out on the balcony with them that morning, having their coffee and their breakfast in the sun. “Arthur is leaning toward walking away, Dutch,” said Hosea. “With Mary Beth. Leaving the gang.”

Dutch did not look up. His brow became very firm and unyielding, like it got when he was thinking hard. “And.”

“And I have encouraged him to do so,” said Hosea.

“You have _encouraged_ him,” repeated Dutch.

“Yes,” said Hosea. “I’ve been encouraging him for years. You know this. It’s just that finally, he’s listening. And I think it’s about time.”

“I wish—” Dutch looked up at the sky, squinting into the clouds. “Why hasn’t he come to me himself?”

“He would have,” said Hosea. “But I wanted to…feel things out first. Talk to you about it, just us.”

“I see.”

“We need to support him on this Dutch,” said Hosea. “Both of us. He’s been through…hell. With Mary and her degenerate father, and with Eliza before that. You remember Eliza, and Isaac, the brutality of how that ended. How it destroyed him for years.”

“Of course I remember, Hosea. Isaac was Arthur’s son.”

A flock of geese went by over the top of the city, squawking and flapping in a long, elegant V. “How do you feel about it, Dutch?” said Hosea. “How will you react to Arthur when he tells you he’s leaving the gang to make a better life?”

“Better?” said Dutch, confused, looking up at Hosea. “Better how?”

“All of us have lost people we love, Dutch. To this life. All of us. You, me, and Arthur. We thought, both selfishly and erroneously, that we could live the lives we live and keep our women safe. We dragged them down to the underworld. They stuck by us, because they were loyal, good girls, and they paid for it in the end. Eliza, Annabelle…Bessie.” Hosea looked down at his hands, flexed them open and closed. “It isn’t right. Arthur has a chance now, to do better.”

Dutch’s focus was dark, not sinister, but fearsome. The mention of Annabelle had spurned him. Hosea knew that it would. “We can’t…lose him,” he said.

“Why not?” said Hosea. “We’ve got a lot of good guns left, and I’ll stand by your side, Dutch, till the end. You have my word.”

“We need him. I…need him.”

“Is that your love for the boy speaking, Dutch?”

“What else would it be?”

“Your fear of losing his loyalties,” said Hosea. “Your fear of losing.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because that’s what this is,” said Hosea. “He would be choosing her, and in some essence, himself, over his loyalty to you. Do you understand that?”

Dutch began to fuss with his rings.

“You look afraid, Dutch,” said Hosea. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“He’s like a son to me,” said Dutch. “He’s more than that. That’s what’s on my mind.”

“Then you should be happy for him. If he chooses to leave, you should support him.”

Dutch looked up then, desperately curious. “Is he—does she make him happy, Hosea? Mary Beth Gaskill? You’ve seen it?”

“That’s how it seems, yes.”

“How it seems?” said Dutch. “Or how it is?”

Hosea gave him a long, careful look, reading his agenda. “Arthur would not be with her if she didn’t make him happy. He’s not exactly the settling sort. He doesn’t give himself to women with any sort of freedom at all, not in the past five years at least. And we know Mary Beth. She’s been in the gang for several years now. She’s a good girl. Her and Arthur have always been friends, shared interests. It’s not like she’s come out of the blue or anything like that. I think it’s safe to say she makes him happy.”

“What if she hurts him?” said Dutch.

“He’s a grown man,” said Hosea. “He’ll survive. But I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“Arthur has a habit of getting hurt. Badly. If he runs off with her, and she leaves him, we’ll be right back where we started.”

“She won’t leave him,” said Hosea.

Dutch sighed, his jaw set firm. He folded his hands together on the table. “I want to talk to him myself,” he said.

“As you should,” said Hosea. “With this all coming from me, certainly you’re not getting the whole story. How will you handle it?”

“I’ll listen. I’ll deliberate.”

“And then what.”

“And then…we shall see.”

Hosea sighed. “Forgive me, Dutch, for saying what I’m about to say. But I must warn you—don’t attempt to poison him. Against her, against the idea. He’ll see through you. It won’t end well.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’ve done it before. With Eliza.”

The accusation took a moment to sink in, but once it did, Dutch became venomous. He slapped his palm to the table, very fast, so hard that it made a big noise, alarming a couple of nearby patrons.

“Dutch—”

He pointed his finger, in Hosea’s face, but he did not look at Hosea. “That was not my doing,” he said, angry. “Do not blame me for what happened to Eliza and Isaac.”

“I’m not, Dutch.”

“Eliza and Isaac were murdered,” he said. He ceased pointing. He ran a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes, like looking back—it burst into him, regrowing some old pain he had not confronted in years. “They were murdered, by goddam barbarians in their own goddam home.” He opened his eyes, confronted Hosea with disquieting focus. “I searched for their killers for months, if you’ll so kindly recall, while Arthur, ruined soul that he became, succumbed to the power of his grief and nearly drank himself to death. _Had I found them,_ I would have ripped their hearts out through their goddam throats with my own bare goddam hands, and you know this.”

“I would never blame you for what happened to Eliza and Isaac,” said Hosea. “That’s not what this is. Don’t be a fool.”

“Then what is this?”

“You weren’t crazy about it—the prospect of Arthur going back there to see them, as often as he did, and you let him know.”

“Of course I let him know,” said Dutch. “I also told him to corral her and the boy and to bring them with us. I never once told him to leave her behind.”

“As far as we know, he tried to get her to come with us, on multiple occasions. She just wouldn’t budge.”

“And had she simply acquiesced, perhaps the two of them would still be alive. But she didn’t, and they’re not, and Arthur—my blessed Arthur—suffered,” said Dutch. He lowered his voice now, as if what he was saying next was somehow a secret. “Forgive me for not wanting that to happen again.”

“He could’ve stayed with her. He could’ve made a life with her. That’s part of my point. But you encouraged him against it.”

Dutch lowered his voice then, displeased. He leaned forward on his elbows, looming as far over the table as possible. “He was twenty-three years old when she had that baby, Hosea.”

“I know.”

“He wasn’t gonna choose to settle down. Not with her, a teenage bar girl who he knocked up on a one night stand in a hotel room over the George Washington Tavern in Butte, Montana. What was he gonna do? Marry her? Sell his lungs to the local silver mine to keep her in rags while she raised his child in a tin shack, becoming an impoverished mining widow at the ripe old age of twenty-one?”

“Maybe,” said Hosea. “At least it would’ve been his choice.”

“Sure. His _choice_. His choice to die miserably, in a hole in the earth, a slave to some foreman with a loaded rifle in his hands. Well, god bless his soul, he didn’t make that choice, did he, Hosea? And it was not me forcing him.”

“You’re right,” said Hosea. “You’re right, Dutch.”

“You’re goddam right I’m right.” He relaxed, slouched back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and looked out past the clean air of the balcony.

“But this is precisely why now is so important,” said Hosea.

“Whatever do you mean?” said Dutch.

“Because he’s moving on from all that. Talking with him, yesterday, he yielded as much. He's healing. All that business with Mary and her asshole father, and all that grief leftover from Eliza and Isaac. He’s making a choice now, to heal, and it might not be a choice that pleases you.”

“Then so be it,” said Dutch. “He’s not a prisoner. He is free to leave at any time. Regardless of my feelings. Why are we even having this conversation?”

“Because he loves you, and he looks up to you, and he’s gonna want your approval. That’s why.”

Dutch looked right at him and blinked.

“He’s not twenty-three anymore,” said Hosea. “That’s more than a decade past. He’s grown. But he still counts on you, on both of us. And I know you’re worried about him. That much I can ascertain. But Mary Beth is not a bar girl from the sticks in Montana. They didn’t make with a one night stand on the pretense of physical attraction alone. She’s capable, and she’s intelligent, and she’s been around for a long time now, and she loves him.”

“And as I said before,” said Dutch, “I believe you, Hosea. I do. I'd just like to speak with him. Myself.”

Hosea sighed. He nodded once, very stern. “Then I’m trusting you,” he said, “to not attempt to destroy this for him. His loyalty these past twenty years is worth more than that, Dutch. Do not poison his mind, even in subtle ways. Do not force him to leave on uncertain or angry terms.”

“I would never. Do that,” said Dutch.

“Good,” said Hosea, looking out over the edge of the balcony. A sparrow came and landed on the railing, chirped, looked around, flew away. “That’s all I needed you to say. Now I’m gonna head back to Shady Belle,” he went on. “You and young Lenny come on when you’re ready.”

“What?”

“I said I’m gonna head back to Shady Belle.”

“Wait,” said Dutch, though he wouldn’t look him in the eye. He seemed flustered.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t need to be…riding alone in these parts. It’s not safe. Just wait.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Hosea.

“Just—” Dutch took a long, deep breath, staring down at his hands, planted hard on the table. He was fucking pissed off, but trying hard to collect his composure. “—wait,” he said. “I don’t want you riding alone.”

Hosea was looking right at him, waiting to see if Dutch would look up, soften, or retract, but he didn’t. Hosea took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go tell the boy we’re leaving then.”

“You do that,” said Dutch.

 

Meanwhile, back at camp, Mary Beth was in the shade, touching up her blush, looking in a hand mirror. Everywhere was wet from the storm, but it made the swamps feel cleaner somehow, and it was invigorating, and after they’d woken up and gone off to do some chores round the yard that morning, she and Arthur had found each other and wandered into the surrounding tree cover alone. Once they’d left the purview of the camp, he picked her up and put her hard against the back of a tall cypress, and he made good of her with a kind of hidden speed reserved only for sex in the wild. She was still frazzled from it, and now he was over there, fixing a busted wagon wheel, with John and Charles, his sleeves rolled up, sweating and wearing his hat. She was caught looking by Karen, who came by holding a shotgun on her rounds from the perimeter. Karen stood, admiring with her for a moment, then she nudged Mary Beth with her elbow and said, kind of cheeky, “He sure is a snack, Mary Beth, but is he as good as looks?”

Mary Beth blushed and acted surprised by Karen being there. “Excuse me?”

Karen started to laugh. “Oh don’t be so shocked. I know. Everybody knows. It ain’t every day Arthur Morgan gets broken by a woman. That’s big news.”

“I didn’t _break_ him,” said Mary Beth. “He ain't no horse. That’s not what it’s like.”

“Then what is it like? He ain’t been sweet on a girl since that Mary. I’d say good work, but I ain’t surprised by the two of you being together, to be honest. It’s nice.”

“Why’s that?”

“The way you’re always nerding around here, with your big ideas and your journals. Sean told me, too, before he, you know, got his brains blown out, that going robbing with you two, it was like being stuck in the third wheel. Arthur’s been hard on you for a while, it seems. Sweet, sensitive Arthur. You're lucky.”

Mary Beth sighed. The mention of Sean made her sad. “We never really talked about Sean,” said Mary Beth.

“Why would we?” said Karen.

“Because you two…kind of…didn’t you?”

“Didn’t we what?” said Karen. “Have a few go-rounds between the sheets while under the influence of whiskey?”

“A few go-rounds is more than one,” said Mary Beth. “Even on whiskey. If you kept _going round,_ that’s a choice. At some point. Maybe it was more, maybe not. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I mean, it ain’t pretty. What happened. I’m real sorry.”

Karen got kind of quiet then. She was stone cold sober, which was a rare sight in those days, but it wasn’t unheard of. She lowered the gun down a little and looked away. She looked at the muddy ground. Then she looked at the sweaty sight of the boys fixing the wagon wheel. “Nobody ever asked me if I was okay with it,” said Karen. “Well, I mean, except Arthur. He’s always asking me if I’m okay.”

“Arthur is a good man,” said Mary Beth, smiling. “And are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Karen, looking down at her hands, holding that gun. “Thanks, Mary Beth.”

“I’m here for you,” said Mary Beth. “If you ever wanna talk. Or you just want someone to drink with. I ain’t great at holding my liquor, but I’m better than some.”

Karen smiled at this, very knowing. “Well, I’ll take you up on that. That is, if you ain’t too busy sneaking off with _Arthur_ , carving out a slice together in the swamps.” 

Mary Beth was scandalized. She nudged Karen with her elbow. “Karen!” she said. “You watched us?”

Karen was laughing now. “No. I didn’t _watch_. Not exactly. I just…saw. By accident. Don’t worry. It was only me, and I ain’t telling no one.”

Mary Beth’s face felt very warm. She tried to remember what it had been like, tried to remember what it was Karen might have seen…exactly.

“He’s a hair-puller, ain’t he?” said Karen, her voice low.

“Sweet Christmas,” said Mary Beth, exhaling. “Get back on your rounds before Miss Grimshaw comes over here and yells at us both.”

Karen laughed. “Whatever you say.” Then she was on her way back out into the trees.

A little while later, Arthur was leaning in the shade over by the scout fire, drinking some water from a canteen. He was talking to John, who smoked and looked serious. Mary Beth had just mended a busted tent belonging to Charles and given it back to him at the campfire. He sat with her now, and he was showing her how to mix together a kind of poison for weapons in return. He was a very good teacher, and a kind listener. He didn’t ask her about Arthur, though she knew he knew. His stoicism and restraint made her feel comfortable. He said she could use the poison on knives, arrows, or even buckshot if she wanted to get creative. In the background, Javier played his guitar, the music pretty and drifting in the waning hours of the early afternoon. Karen and Tilly sat beside him, over by the wagons, eating apples and swaying side to side. Sadie could be seen not far away, her turn on the perimeter, holding her gun, looking fierce but also somehow bored with the horses.

“It never hurts to be prepared,” said Charles, as he showed her how to tip an arrow in the poison. “Make sure you wash your hands real good after making this stuff.”

“I will,” said Mary Beth.

He smiled. He didn’t say everything that was on his mind. He was a quiet and careful sort of soul, like Arthur. She thought it was no wonder they were friends.

“Charles?” she said after a little while.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you kind of a personal question?”

“Sure,” he said.

She took a deep breath. She was curious. She thought he'd give her an honest answer, no matter what. “Do you ever…think about leaving this place?” she said. "Leaving the gang?"

He sighed, shrugged. “Sometimes,” he said, cleaning his sawed off in his lap. “But I’ve got nowhere else to go. And I still believe in Dutch. Even if he does seem…lost. For the time being at least.”

“You know,” she said, feeling wistful, admiring the poison arrow in her hands, “when I first got into the gang, I never wanted to leave. I’ve always trusted these boys. You boys. I still do.”

“If you and Arthur want to leave,” said Charles, looking up at her, right at her, reading her mind, “you should leave. Don’t look back. Find a better life, Mary Beth. I know I would if I could.”

She felt him gazing into her, so even in his temperament. His control. Then he blinked, and he broke his own focus, looked back down at his gun to continue his polishing. The arrow she held was beautifully fletched with beautiful feathers from a golden finch. She sighed, listening to the clanking sounds of the day—Pearson carving out a hefty deer for their dinner, Micah sharpening his knife at one of the tables nearby, Abigail feeding the chickens, Javier’s guitar.

 

Dutch, Hosea, and Lenny returned to Shady Belle around five o’clock. They had been in St. Denis, but it turns out they had stopped to fish along the way and came bearing a great bounty for Pearson. Arthur and Mary Beth had canoed out into the river a little ways and were emptying traps full of crawdads out in the surrounding swamps, a favor for Pearson. Arthur had his pants rolled up to his knees, and Mary Beth had her skirt near hiked over her shoulders. They were both barefoot in the mud. At one point, Mary Beth spotted a nasty Copperhead in the weeds, which Arthur flipped over with a stick and shot point blank with his pistol. It floated away, real dead, into the murky river. When they got back to the pier of Shady Belle, the light from the day was waning, and they rinsed off in a bucket of clean water, and Arthur put his boots back on. They were walking back to the house with a huge basket of the crawdads carried between them, and that is when they were greeted by Dutch, who was waiting by the gazebo, a surprise, reading a book and smoking a cigar.

“Arthur and Mary Beth,” he said, smiling in welcome. He closed his book and tossed it to the earth, took one last puff off the cigar and tossed that as well. “It’s good to have you two home.”

“Hey, Dutch,” said Arthur, as they came up with the basket. He and Mary Beth were carrying it together. “How goes it?”

“Just fine,” said Dutch. He then tipped his hat to Mary Beth. “Miss Gaskill.”

“Evening,” she said, graciously. “How long have y’all been back?”

“Oh, not long,” said Dutch. He took a deep breath. “I heard the two of you had quite the trip.”

“That, we did,” said Arthur. He gestured to Mary Beth to put down the basket. Then he dusted off his hands and approached Dutch head-on. She followed. “How was St. Denis.”

“Fine,” said Dutch. “We can talk more about that later.”

“Sounds good,” said Arthur.

There was a pause then, not awkward, but filled with some sort of tension. In the background, you could hear the fish swimming around in the river and also the Reverend somewhere, talking to Herr Strauss about the weather.

“Miss Gaskill,” said Dutch then, out of the blue.

“Yes?”

He removed his hat altogether now, held it in front of him by the brim. A gentleman. “Would it be all right if I…borrowed dear Arthur for just a moment?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling.

“Thank you,” said Dutch. Then he replaced his hat atop his head. He looked at Arthur. “Arthur? Will you walk with me?”

Arthur nodded, real certain, chewing a piece of tall grass. “Always,” he said. He looked down at Mary Beth, put a little hair behind her ear, kissed her forehead, smiled.

Then he looked back at Dutch. “Come on.”


	20. A Man of No Mystery

They walked along the swampy river bank. Dutch had his hands in his pockets. He seemed highly contemplative, almost dreamy. Arthur was curious and unperturbed, but he did feel distant—in a way he had not truly felt before. Like he was on the outside of things now, looking in. He adjusted his hat, lit a cigarette, smoked casually. Once they got far enough away from the property, he heard Dutch make a huge, walloping sigh. Then Dutch stopped, hands still shoved in his pockets. He stared up at the long, white clouds.

“How are you, son?” he said, searching.

“I’m good,” said Arthur. “I heard things was quiet, while we was gone.”

“That, they were,” said Dutch. He nodded, as if affirming his own sense of solace. “That they were.”

“What’s going on, Dutch?”

“I heard that you and Miss Gaskill—you’ve kindled something. Something…real.” Finally, he looked at Arthur. “Is that true?”

Arthur smoked. He tried seeing the earnestness in Dutch’s eyes. He thought, maybe it was true. Maybe it was. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Is that what you wanna talk about?”

“It is,” said Dutch. “I mean, there’s a great deal to talk about, but we could start…there. It interests me greatly.”

“What do you wanna know?”

“Just—” Dutch took a deep breath. “Just tell me about it.”

Arthur took a long drag off the cigarette, smoking it down to his fingertips. He blew the smoke tossed the nubbin to the grass. “Up north, we ran into some bad, bad characters.”

“Everything turned out okay, I expect?”

“It’s fine,” said Arthur. “But at the time, it wasn’t fine. It made things desperate. It took us by surprise and put things into perspective a little. We’ve always been friends, but I think we just realized, after that, that we was more. More than friends. Things changed.”

Dutch seemed pained at this, but desperately curious. “Hosea came to me today,” he said, rubbing the scruff at his chin. “He told me that you love her.”

“I do,” said Arthur. He shrugged. He smiled. “She gets me, Dutch.”

Dutch smiled, like he was wondering wistfully at what it was to be got. “Tell me about that.”

Arthur looked out at the river, surveying the fish, the huge and the brown fish splashing around in the water. “She lets me be…me. She listens to me. She makes me feel safe.”

“Safe?” said Dutch.

“Yes, sir.”

“You gonna marry her, son?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “As soon as I can. I don’t wanna wait on it too long.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s time,” said Arthur. “It's just time. I’m thirty-six years old, Dutch. I’m a man without any mystery left inside me. She's good with that, and I ain’t letting her get away.”

“That's...inspiring, Arthur,” said Dutch. "Really."

Arthur gave him a look, not entirely sure what to say next. “So, what?” said Arthur, squaring up with him. "That's all?"

“Excuse me?"

Arthur shoved his own hands in his own pockets. “I don't know. I just keep waiting for you to...call me into question. You keep doing that, Dutch. Like you don't trust my judgment. Like you ain't known me for...twenty-two years."

Dutch shook his head out, once, real quickly. He seemed lost. “I trust your judgment. I just wanted to hear it from you, about your relationship with Mary Beth. I'm happy for you, Arthur. Is that what you want to hear?"

Arthur sighed, he looked down at his boots. He felt bad, and then he looked back up at Dutch. “Maybe," he said.

“Well then, there you have it."

“I just—I assumed this talk here, the one we’re having, is a product of whatever Hosea said to you in St. Denis, and that really, it's about what comes next. That it’s about us leaving.”

“I—” Dutch trailed off. “That is a part of it, yes."

“Can I say something?” said Arthur. "Before you go on."

“Of course,” said Dutch.

“Just in my own defense. I feel like—I feel you’ve known me for a long time, and I need to just…explain something to you.”

“Arthur. Please. Talk.”

“Okay,” said Arthur. He took a deep breath, very serious. He took his hands out of his pockets and sort of held them out in front of him, a peace offering. “I love you, Dutch,” he said, looking him in the eye. “I do.”

“I love you, too, son.”

“And I mean it. This ain’t no ploy for your sympathies. I know how you feel about loyalty. I care about it, a lot, too. You and Hosea, you been like a couple of fathers to me, and I ain’t calculating to do anything without telling the two of you. I know I’ve screwed up my share of relationships with women. You’re probably looking me right now like I’m goddam crazy. Because I’ll admit, I’ve fucked up a lot, in the past. I’ve ruined so much. Eliza. Mary. I lost—I lost a great deal. But this ain’t about me repeating my old mistakes. That I promise you. It’s about me making a life I can be proud of, something of my own, and living it with a person who I care about, and who cares about me. Who don’t try to—to change me.” He looked down at his hands, such battered creatures, this old habit he could not shake. “I wanna be with her, so badly. It strangles me, Dutch. I ain’t felt this way in—hell I’m not sure I ever have. And I just—the way things look right now, with the gang and what we’re doing and the hell we’re getting ourselves into, everything we’re running from—I can’t protect her forever in this sorry state in which we’ve found ourselves. And if—when there’s a child. My child, in the mix of all this—I won't fuck that up. Not again.”

“Arthur—”

“I’m almost finished,” said Arthur. “I swear.”

Dutch nodded.

“I just want you to know,” he went on, “that this ain’t about you.” Arthur lit another cigarette, smoked somewhat frantically. He felt stripped, kind of cracked for some reason. He closed his eyes. “It’s about me and her,” he said. “That’s all. I will always be loyal to you, Dutch. But I can no longer put myself at risk for this life that we lead, when I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore. It’s too dangerous. It’s too uncertain.” He opened his eyes again, looking right at Dutch, the smoke crawling in the air between them. “The way I see it sometimes, the only way out of this for me is at the end of a rope, or on a chain gang somewhere, digging holes in the long, hot sun—a fate I probably deserve, to be honest. But I won’t do that to her, Dutch. I won’t. I can’t.”

Dutch watched him closely. He had his hands on his hips, had been nodding along, listening with intent. Or at least it seemed that way. Sometimes, when he was talking to Dutch, Arthur felt as if he were talking into an empty village. A place where loved ones used to live and thrive but have since migrated elsewhere. He was desperate not to feel this way. He harbored so much guilt, so much ugly weight inside. He wanted freedom, but he was terrified of losing Dutch for reasons he could not always comprehend, explain, or even deal with anymore.

"You do not deserve that fate," said Dutch. "You deserve happiness."

“I'm trying to get there," said Arthur.

“Everything you're saying to me," said Dutch, "I hear you, and I think it's beautiful. I am not here to stop you from pursuing a life and family of your own. How could I? After what happened to Eliza, and your son. I remember that like it was yesterday. I remember what it did to you, what it did to all of us. How I almost lost you that year. And I won’t ask you to give up your shot at a second chance with Mary Beth.”

Arthur just stared at him, almost confused. “Thank you,” he said, again.

“You’re welcome, son,” said Dutch. He looked out at the brown water. Way, way out in the distance, you could see a river boat, coming down the aisle, with a couple men fishing off the ledge. “But, Arthur,” he went on.

Arthur followed his gaze. He sighed. He knew there had to be something. He polished off the cigarette and tossed it into the river. “What, Dutch.”

“Can you just give me…a little more time.”

Arthur squinted at him, trying to suss out his agenda. “More time.”

“Yes,” said Dutch, releasing his shoulders back, holding out his hands in reason. “Just a little…more…time.”

“Time for what, Dutch?”

“Time to—to get us out of this…this mess that you so deftly pointed out. All of us. Time for me to do my part in giving you and yours a real chance at a better life.”

“In Tahiti?” said Arthur. “I don’t wanna go to Tahiti, Dutch. That life, that fantasy. It ain’t for me.”

“It doesn’t have to be Tahiti,” said Dutch. “That’s a—a pipe dream. It’s over there.”

“Over where?”

“You know what I’m saying,” said Dutch. “I just mean—help me, Arthur.”

“Help you?”

“Help me figure out what to do. We can…have your wedding. Reverend Swanson, assuming we can get him sober enough for the day, can do it right here, at Shady Belle. _Or_ we’ll get a church. A river boat with a ship captain. Whatever you and Miss Gaskill would prefer. We’ll get her a dress, a ring. We’ll get all the women dresses, and we’ll see the two of you through this. Like a family. And in our execution of your day—this monumental moment for you, and for her, we get a _little_. _More_. _Time_.”

Arthur studied him. He didn’t feel turned around, though he was surprised. “You wanna throw us a wedding?”

“Of course I do,” said Dutch. “You’re my children. Both of you. I want to give you the goddam world, Arthur.”

“And during this…time you’re asking for,” said Arthur. “While Mary Beth is busy with Abigail and Tilly, picking out a dress and a church, a ring from the jewelry shop in St. Denis, what’re you gonna ask me to do? Odd jobs for Mr. Angelo Bronte? Rob a bank? Collect debts? Get shot?”

Dutch shook his head right away. “No, son. No. Like I said before, I hear everything you’re saying. I won’t ask you to do anything if it means risking your life.”

“You won’t.”

“No. That is what you want, isn't it?"

Arthur nodded, once.

"I just—help me," pleaded Dutch. 

“Help you what?”

“Help me formulate a plan, Arthur. To get us out of here.”

“You want _my_ help, formulating a plan to get us out of here?”

“Yes. Yours. And Hosea’s, of course. The three of us, we work together, not separately— _with_ and not against one another—I think we can do it, Arthur. I really do.”

Arthur pressed his eyes shut. He shook his head. "Are you gonna actually listen to me, Dutch?" he said. "Are you gonna keep accusing me of things like _betrayal_ and _losing my faith_? Because I hear it when you say those things to me, and they don't feel good."

"I'll listen," said Dutch, straightening up, appearing to be strong and focused. Maybe like the old Dutch, before Annabelle got taken away. "I will."

Staring at him hard, Arthur was picking through a fiery landscape trying to figure out whether this was a reliable pledge. "Can I believe you?"

“Yes,” said Dutch. "And I'll prove it. I just need a little more time."

“How much time,” said Arthur. “In this grand scheme of yours, how much time do you reckon you need.”

“One month,” said Dutch, hands on his hips again. “The way I see it, Arthur, we don’t have much longer than that anyway. The Pinkertons—somebody’s gonna find us eventually.”

“And I should take that gamble. For one month,” said Arthur.

“I am not telling you what to do,” said Dutch. “I am only. Asking.”

Arthur bit down, flexed his jaw real hard. “I need to talk to her,” he said. “I need to see what—how she’s feeling.”

“By all means,” said Dutch, back on his toes again, full of hope and that tell tale van der Linde idealism. “Take the night. Take tomorrow, too. Talk to Mary Beth. Let me know what it is you decide. _When_ you decide.”

Arthur nodded. He looked over to the side of the house, by the medicine wagon. He saw Tilly playing fetch with Cain the dog. “Fine.”

“One more thing,” said Dutch.

Arthur sighed. “What’s that.”

“It ain’t _specifically_ about you and Mary Beth—who, by the way, I think is a splendid woman—a beautiful woman at that, and I have no doubt she’ll bring you infinite happiness for the rest of your days—”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Get on with it. This is about Bronte, I presume?”

“It is, my good sir.” He turned to look back at the house, with Arthur. Together, they measured its dying grace. “Mr. Bronte has invited us, meaning me and my associates, to the gilded cage.”

“Which is?”

“A party. A fabulous social engagement to be attended by the likes of every important person in this greater southern region of the United States. It’s in St. Denis, at the Mayor’s house.”

“A party?” said Arthur, disbelieving. “He’s invited us to a party? At the Mayor’s house?”

“Yes, sir. I was thinking you, me, Hosea, maybe Bill—”

“Bill?”

“Well, we can’t bring Javier or Lenny or Charles, not to an event populated by _the_ veritable _scum of the earth_. And we need a seasoned man on the job. Somebody who can keep his mouth shut and just look…big.”

Arthur waved him off. “If you say so.”

“Anyway, you didn’t let me finish.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “Please, continue.”

“ _As I was saying_ ,” said Dutch. “You, me, Hosea, Bill, and Miss Gaskill are going to the ball.”

Full surprised, Arthur balked. “Miss Gaskill?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“You wanna bring Mary Beth on a job?”

“I do.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Just hear me out, Arthur.”

“The answer is no.”

“Please.”

Arthur sighed, hands on his hips.

“There will be no guns at this job, Arthur,” said Dutch. “No guns. No violence. No danger whatsoever. It’s a party. It’s…reconnaissance.” 

“Reconnaissance for what?” said Arthur.

“Reconnaissance for...what we might be able to get out of all this. If there's anything to be gotten, of course.”

“And how can Miss Gaskill aid us in our…reconnaissance?”

“We dress her up. We call her your wife—an oil heiress from Galveston, Texas. She injects enough charm into the situation to throw Bronte off by even a sliver, and she elevates us and our station in the meantime. With oil money at our back, Bronte will be far less likely to mess with our intentions, Arthur.”

“But we don’t got no oil money at our back.”

“Details, my boy,” said Dutch. “Details.”

Arthur dropped his chin to his chest, shook his head like he’d never heard something both so certifiably insane and yet oddly ingenious. “Why Mary Beth? Why not Abigail?”

“Because we need him to believe the story,” said Dutch. “Surely a true romantic _I-talian_ like himself will appreciate the heat between you. It’ll add a whole new layer of truth to the plan. And we can’t bring John. Those fresh scars of his are likely to...scare the delicate nobles. Plus, Mary Beth has a quintessential American style. Big hair, big eyes, freckles. She _looks_ like an oil heiress, and you know it.”

Arthur gave him a long and careful look, almost scathing. Dutch was holding up his hands, as if in surrender. “It ain’t a bad plan,” said Arthur. “But I don’t know.”

“No guns,” said Dutch. “I promise you. Talk to Hosea. He’ll back me up on this.”

“I will talk to Hosea,” said Arthur. “And this is another thing I need to talk to Mary Beth about, since I don’t know that she’ll go for it.”

“In which case, we’ll ask fair Abigail,” said Dutch. “A worthy understudy, by all means. The two of you have...a history anyway, don't you?”

Arthur gave him a look. "I ain't got no history with Abigail, sir. We've only ever been friends."

"Well, then, you'll fake it."

“When’s the party," said Arthur.

“Three days from today, in the evening.”

“Fine,” said Arthur. He adjusted his hat, looked around. “Fine. We done here?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Good,” said Arthur. Somewhere up in the yard, you could hear a scuffle take place. Likely Bill, already punch drunk at six in the evening. Arthur looked right at Dutch then, very serious and very hard. “I’m choosing to trust you, Dutch,” he said. “I’ll talk to Mary Beth. You and me, we can reconvene tomorrow.”

Dutch leaned in close then, real close to Arthur’s face. He clapped one hand to each of Arthur’s shoulders, lowered his voice. “Thank you, son.” Then he pushed off, tipped his hat, and went up the porch steps and into the house.

Arthur took a very deep breath.

 

That night, Arthur and Mary Beth lie in Arthur’s bed, entangled and post-sex, with Mary Beth’s hair big and everywhere, and Arthur lighting another cigarette. He'd been smoking a lot that night—all through dinner, more than usual. He smoked, sure, thought Mary Beth, but he wasn’t really the chain-smoking variety by any means. She mostly saw him smoke under two circumstances—nerves and idle boredom. He was flexing his hand open and shut when she plucked the cigarette from between his lips and brought it to her own. She took a single drag and then handed it back to him.

“You’re smoking a lot,” she said.

He seemed surprised. "I am?"

“You gonna tell me what happened with Dutch?” 

Arthur glanced down at the cigarette. He put it out on the window sill. Then he looked at her. She looked real pretty in the light from the moon, as it was coming through the window casting all in its lines of silver. He sighed. He kissed her. “A lot happened with Dutch,” he said.

“Tell me.”

Arthur put a little bit of hair behind her ear. He told her all about their conversation, starting with the beginning, skipping over the Bronte stuff for the time being. Mary Beth listened with intent. She held his hands as he talked. "He's happy?" she said at some point. She had had her misgivings, it was true. She didn't know what to expect. 

“Well, he’s a difficult man to read,” said Arthur. “I don’t always trust him. But he did seem—I don’t know—halfway sincere in all this. I known the man a long time. I like to think I can see some stuff coming, or at least for what it is. He _was_ happy for us, in his way. He didn’t try to poison me or challenge me. At least not in any overt fashion. But he did ask for more time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he wants us to wait a little bit before we cut and run.”

Mary Beth picked up Arthur’s hand. She traced the calluses and how they ran like little mountain ranges through his palm. “How much time?” she said.

“A month,” he said.

“That ain’t so bad,” said Mary Beth, shrugging. “What does he want you to do, in the meantime, I mean?”

“That’s just the thing,” said Arthur, tracing his big fingers past her arm. “He said he wanted me to stick with him, to try and help him formulate a plan to get us _all_ out of here. He said he wouldn’t subject me to no violence. He said it didn’t have to be like that no more, said he understood why I needed to protect myself. I thought it sounded insane, but I had to believe him, in the moment.”

Mary Beth was looking at him. She palmed his jaw to make him look at her. “ _Do you_ believe him?” she said.

Arthur blinked, nodded. “I think so,” he said. “It still don’t mean nothing. I need to know how you feel. What you wanna do, Mary Beth.”

“You know me, Arthur,” she said. “I been doing this for five years. What’s another month?”

“Because a month, Mary Beth, turns into two months, turns into six, turns into a year.”

“That won’t happen,” she said. 

Arthur thought on this, kissed the back of her hand, grazing his thumb past her delicate knuckles. She had a way with simple truths. She was right. 

“Give him his month,” she went on. “Unless you sincerely don’t want to, Arthur. If that’s the case, and you ain't trusting in him, or the situation, then let’s go. Let’s leave in the morning. I’m with you. I wanna go, too. I don't wanna be a...van der Linde girl forever. I wanna be your girl. Wherever we end up. But I can be practical, too, Arthur, and I also know that it don’t have to be right this minute in order to come true.”

Staring at her, he got calm. Got peaceful. Wanted to rest. He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “We'll give him his month and try to stay...I don't know...positive I guess. But we’ll play it by ear, too. If things get…out of hand for any reason, we’re gone. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, and she kissed him on the forehead. Then she kissed him on the mouth. They kissed more. It was moving back in that heated direction again like it always seemed to be. She was always wanting for him in those days, and so she reached into the sheets to find him half-hard—but he stopped her, smiling, took her by the wrist. “What’s the matter?” she said.

“There’s one more thing,” he said, looking at her.

“With what?” she said. She was trying not to get too dreamy.

“Dutch wants you to come on a job with us,” he said, "in a couple of days.”

“What?” she said, sort of coming to. She sat up real straight and pushed the hair off her face. She had forgotten all about what she'd just been doing. “What kind of job?”

“A party,” he said. He placed his big hand on her knee. “A fancy party, at the Mayor’s house in St. Denis. Dutch called it reconnaissance. He wants you to come along and pretend to be some oil man’s daughter, from Texas.”

Mary Beth covered her mouth and started laughing. “An oil man’s daughter from Texas?”

“That’s right. You’d be posing as my wife. He thinks having some sort of status, running with us, that might keep Bronte in check.”

“Why me?” she said.

“Because you’re with me,” he said. “Makes it more…believable. I don’t know. Plus, you’re you. You got the right look. It makes sense, I just—I don’t know, Mary Beth. What do you think?”

“Just a party?” she said. “With people everywhere?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Dutch said no guns. No fighting or anything like that. Just surveying. I'm gonna double-check with Hosea, but also, I know that Dutch is planning to bring Hosea with on the job. My feelings is, he wouldn't be doing that unless he knew it was guaranteed to be safe."

"Why's that?"

"Because Dutch don't like risking Hosea's life," said Arthur. "I seen it. Only lately, since Hosea's health has started to...decline. It's one of the reasons I keep finding myself believing him when he says he won't put me at no unnecessary risk either. Though I suppose that could also be my childish naiveté talking."

"You ain't childish," said Mary Beth. "What you're saying makes perfect sense."

Arthur shrugged. "Thanks, Mary Beth."

“Do you think I can pull it off?” she said.

"Pull what off?"

"Being an oil man's daughter? From Texas?"

Arthur renewed his grip on her knee. “I think you can pull off anything, Mary Beth. It’s just a matter of whether you’re comfortable with the situation or not.”

She sighed, thought about it, looking out the window. Outside, there were coyotes yelping and howling in the distance. You could hear rummaging, too, throughout the camp, while Pearson and Susan packed up their business from the day. “Do I get to wear a fancy dress?” said Mary Beth after a little while.

Arthur found this amusing. He nodded, smiling real low. “Yes, you do.”

“Then count me in,” she said. She grabbed his face with both hands, and she kissed him good. “I never been to a fancy party before.”

“Me neither,” said Arthur.

“Then at least it’ll be memorable,” she said.

“Hopefully not too memorable.”

She kissed his eyes. He was relaxed now. Soft and sleepy. She was, too. Like a big blanket of cotton pulled over them. Like they were floating out on a limb somewhere, in the clouds.

Arthur pushed the hair all off her shoulders then, kissed the top of her head as she nestled in beside him.

After a little while of leaning, Arthur realized he had been listening to himself breathing in a slow and even fashion. He thought about what he had said to Dutch that day, about feeling _safe_ , and feeling  _got,_ and how Dutch didn't seem to recognize these concepts, and that made Arthur sad. He decided to just take a risk that night, though he knew it was a good risk with plentiful odds, it was still a risk, but one worth taking nonetheless. The beauty and softness of this moment was too good and too pure. He took a deep breath, and he closed his eyes.

“Marry me,” he said to her, almost like he was not even thinking.

"What?" she said.

“Mary Beth," he said. "Marry me.”

She sat up then. Right away. She was alert. He just let his eyes fall open, looking up at her, lazy like. “Really?” she said.

He took her hand, his head heavy against the pillow. He had no fears at all. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t see no point in denying my intentions, or wasting time. Unless you’d like to wait, or you’re not sure—”

She gathered up his hands, brought them to her lips, smiling, listening.

“I ain’t got no ring, not yet at least," Arthur continued. "I’m sorry about that. Maybe I should’ve…planned this out better.”

“Don’t need a ring,” she said, almost crying. She put both of her hands on top of his head, like she was covering him, and she kissed his hair. She whispered, "Yes."

He just smiled. He put his arms around her and it was like sinking—through the mattress, through the floor, into the earth. A familiar sensation he felt, being with Mary Beth. He loved her so much. It was like a story. She made the future seem possible and less like dying every day. The coyotes were still howling in the swamps, but he didn't care. He could already hear Javier, just swearing up a storm, heading out to shoot them quiet, or at least chase them off into the terrain. He and Mary Beth talked a little bit more before they fell asleep. She was shaken and excited but she did manage to tell him about how Charles had taught her how to make poison for dipping arrows. 

Arthur laughed. "What'll you do with your poison arrows?" he said.

"Shoot all our enemies," she said, matter of fact. His eyes were closed, but he could hear the smiling in her voice. "What else?"

Arthur nodded. He could see it. He fell asleep after that, dreaming of river boats.


	21. The Gilded Cage, Pt. 1

Two days later, Arthur and Mary Beth went into St. Denis in a coach driven by Charles with John riding shotgun. The idea was for them to be seen at the saloon the night before the party, to try and calcify the illusion, give it layers, create witnesses. If the town was as beholden to Angelo Bronte as the gang had been led to believe, then surely this would be no exception. Arthur was wary, but he was playing along, too, mostly at Hosea’s reassurance. When Arthur told him about Dutch’s one-month request, Hosea had sighed and thought on it for a while. He said he was torn. He became quietly emotional at the prospect of being able to attend the wedding, but he was concerned. He was concerned about Mary Beth, and whether she was going to get pregnant. He said Shady Belle was no place for a baby or a pregnant woman. He said the stakes are high for pregnant women. If something goes wrong, there’s little any ordinary person can do. They need a doctor. He became so worried, in fact, as Arthur was talking to him on the porch of Shady Belle, that he smoked profusely, coughing between each drag, and Arthur began to wonder if something bad had happened to Hosea, before Arthur even knew him. If, like Arthur, he’d lost somebody, somebody small.

“Well, we know a doctor,” said Arthur, lighting his own cigarette.

“You do?” said Hosea.

Arthur nodded. “We met one in Emerald Station. He and his wife own a bed and breakfast up there. They took us in a couple times while we was gone.”

“What does he know about delivering babies?”

“His pa used to deliver babies for slaves escaping up to Canada,” he said. “In Wisconsin, during the Civil War. But Hosea, Mary Beth ain’t pregnant—not yet, as far as we know.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said, adjusting his collar, flicking his cigarette. “It’s on the table. You need to plan for these things, Arthur.”

“I know.” Arthur took his hat off, ran a hand through his hair. It was hot that day. He thought about Deer Cottage, how it had meant something. He tried to assuage Hosea with an agreeable tone. “I know.”

 

That night, at the saloon in St. Denis, the plan was for Arthur to play a little cards with Mary Beth acting as his intelligent Girl Friday, making just enough noise to be seen, but nothing too flashy. Charles and John stayed near, stoic and dressed as security features. Charles was to sharpen his knife and look intimidating while John was to do nothing but smoke and speak only when spoken to, keeping an eye on Arthur and Mary Beth from the bar. Arthur dressed as he normally would that night, but Mary Beth was outfitted at the tailor, and with a small bounty provided by Dutch himself, purchased two dresses: one of more casual frills in a lavender pink for the night at the saloon, and then a ballgown for the party—far more elegant—dusty blue in color with lace sleeves and a collar, and a fabulous, feathered hat to match. She was delighted by the opportunity to wear such pretty things, but she told Arthur as they entered the saloon that night that she also felt a fraud and sort of like a bird on stilts.

“Everybody’s looking,” she said when they crossed the floor to the bar. The room was lively, filled with smoke and piano, and it was mostly men, but there were women here and there, and it was unclear how many of them were just there to mingle, and how many were actually saloon girls. They were not all paired with men.

“Just pretend they’re looking at me,” said Arthur, nodding at a few of the men at the poker tables. “That should help.”

“Well, the women _are_  looking at you,” said Mary Beth. “Looking like they might devour you whole.”

“I highly doubt that, Miss Gaskill.”

“Shh,” she said, smiling, pulling him down so she could whisper in his ear, using a full-on fake Texas twang. “It’s Mrs.  _Kilgore_ , Tacitus.”

Arthur laughed. He looked around. People were staring. Mary Beth looked pretty, and she stood out, even in this crowd. That, he could not deny. “You know, I, too, am starting to feel like a bird on stilts,” he said. “Let’s talk to the bartender here for a minute, and then we’ll find ourselves a seat.”

“Sounds good.”

After a touch of small talk, Arthur ordered a bottle of chilled rosé with two flutes as well as a hefty glass of Kentucky Bourbon for himself. They cozied into a booth at the front of the saloon, and Arthur poured the rosé, and they touched glasses. “To Sean,” said Mary Beth. It had become a tradition between them. Despite his big-mouthed hubris in life, it was the sadness of his passing that had brought Arthur and Mary Beth together. They had not forgotten the funeral to the north.

“When are you gonna hit the tables?” said Mary Beth. “You gonna cheat the cards or play fair?”

Arthur gave her a look. “I ain’t gonna cheat cards with you here, Mary Beth.”

“Why not?”

“Because it ain’t gentlemanly to cheat cards in front of a lady.”

She smiled.

They sat and drank and talked for a while. Mary Beth had an idea for a story of which an old veteran, not unlike Hamish Sinclair, was the star. Arthur liked listening to her talk about her creative brain and all of its weird inner workings and ideas. He was no storyteller but he felt a natural inclination toward language and always had. He was a tough cookie and over many years had grown accustomed to the idea that his inner life was worthy only of hiding. But two weeks of loving Mary Beth made him a little more sure of himself in that his depths were meaningful. He was not weaker for them, or at least they did not change who he was. It was freeing and made him periodically dizzy while participating in their conversations. She expected him to be smart, and she expected him to think deeply. This was the difference between Mary Beth and so many of the other people in his life—including certain of  the women who had once claimed to love him. Mostly this meant Mary, but she was so far out of his heart by now, he could hardly remember their troubled times as well as their times of bliss. 

Arthur didn’t tell Mary Beth about Hosea and his state of mind from earlier that day at Shady Belle. He didn’t want to pressure or worry her. Also, his tendency was not to go counting on things that were still ideas and preferred concrete proof before he made his plans and decisions. He would not make any decisions about Mary Beth getting pregnant until Mary Beth was pregnant. Until then, they were just moving along. Until then, it was just them two, and he felt safe with that because he knew he could talk to her about anything.

After some time, Arthur was getting ready to go see about the poker game across the room. But a group of young men had entered the bar a little while before, well-dressed, sort of loud, and now one of them was approaching he and Mary Beth at their booth. He was wearing a derby hat and an annoying tweed jacket, and he was looking like a schmuck on vacation from classes at the university. He was also drunk, and slack-jawed, the front of his pale ascot soiled with what appeared to be whiskey or beer. The moment he sat down across from them, Arthur raised his eyebrows and picked up his glass and looked at Mary Beth. She was looking at him, too, in confusion.

“You know this guy?” she whispered.

“No,” said Arthur. "Do you?"

“No. Do you think he’s lost?”

Arthur sighed, set down his glass, and looked at the college boy. Then, he knocked on the table, loudly, three times. “Hey,” he said. Then he snapped his fingers in the young man’s face. “Hey.”

He grunted.

Arthur continued. “May we help you with something, boy? Because if not, I kindly suggest you move on.”

“How much?” he said finally. He was speaking to Mary Beth and ignoring Arthur, which was unexpected. It seemed dangerous, but Arthur did not interject at first. The young man was sort of swaying from side to side. He had hollow, glazed eyes. 

“Excuse me?” said Mary Beth.

“How much is he paying you?” said the young man.

“Paying me?”

“I’ll triple it.” He reached into his pocket, started counting through the bills in his leather wallet. “You’re the prettiest dove I ever seen.”

Mary Beth got pissed off, once she realized what he was talking about. “I ain’t no  _dove_ ,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And even if I was, I’d be discerning. I wouldn’t touch the likes of you. Drunken college boys don’t really blow the wind up my skirts if you know what I mean.”

The young man got rowdy then. He smacked his hand down on the table. “How much,” he said, louder this time.

That started something.

Arthur reached across the table, with alarming speed. He garroted the young man with one hand, holding him to the booth. The young man made a loud, guttural noise, and his eyes got big as melons. “What the—”

Arthur studied him, raising his chin a little. Then he lowered his voice, collected, and spoke. “You wanna raise your voice to a woman?” he said, filled with meanness.

The young man, his eyes bugging, shook his head, though there was little room for movement. "No—" he managed.

“Good,” said Arthur, real smooth. “That’s good. Because if you do, know you'll pave your own path to eternal damnation, boy. But I promise, if you raise your voice to mine again, then I will pave that path for you. Understand?”

The young man nodded again. Arthur held him there for a moment longer, to make it really count. Then he let him go and casually straightened and dusted off his ascot as if nothing had happened. The young man gaped, confused, looked at Arthur and apologized.

“Don’t apologize to me,” said Arthur, sipping his whiskey. “Apologize to the lady.”

The young man gulped, capitulated. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“You’re forgiven,” said Mary Beth.

Then he rushed out of the booth, and quickly out of the saloon. Standing by were John and Charles, with keen eyes. Arthur put them at ease with a single two-finger salute. It then took him a minute to compose himself. He took another drink of his whiskey and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Mary Beth, after a long, deep breath. “I just don’t appreciate men with bad manners. Makes my damn blood boil.”

“It’s okay,” said Mary Beth. She was holding his hand under the table now. “He deserved it, and thank you, by the way. I mean, I know you never would’ve actually killed him.”

Arthur laughed to himself. He reached for the bottle of rosé to top off Mary Beth’s glass. “Probably not,” he said.

After that, the night went quickly. Arthur won four hands of poker with Mary Beth standing by his side, lighting his cigars and fanning herself demurely with a Japanese-style fan she brought herself. John had secured them a couple rooms upstairs and before they tripped off to bed, Mary Beth went to the bar to buy a bath.

“It’s been a long time since I bathed in anything but a river,” she said to Arthur as they went upstairs. He was chewing a toothpick. “You wanna come?”

Arthur smiled. In truth, he preferred Mary Beth bathing in the river. He would have her any way, but straight from nature—that was what he liked best. When her curls got long and straight and wet and they went all the way down her back, and the world smelled clean and big and cold and free. He longed to return. The swamps had begun to stifle him once more and the city was but another trap in elaborate disguise. He removed the toothpick from his mouth and placed it behind his ear. Even still, he would have her any way. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

The bathwater was hot and that was one thing that you forget. The water is warm, and the soap is slippery. Mary Beth scrubbed the soap into Arthur’s hair and molded it so that it was shaped like a spike. Then she rinsed it, and it fell flat to his face and made him smile. He scrubbed her hair, too, and it felt good on her scalp. Once they were clean and the water was still warm but beginning to cool, Mary Beth sat facing him, holding his hand and tracing the hard parts and the creases with her fingers. Once in Kansas City she had met a woman at a saloon who knew palmistry. For fifteen cents, she read Mary Beth’s palm and for another fifteen cents, she taught Mary Beth some of the meanings of the lines and the shapes of the hand. Arthur’s hands were big and square—of the earth, if she wasn’t mistaken, reliable and practical in the way they manipulated the world. His heart line was deep and solid, suggesting that he cared intensely for the people in his life, but there were breaks here and there. It wasn’t easy, she thought. There had been a lot of adjustment and a lot of pain. His lifeline was short and very deep. He traveled alone. He had seen and experienced many things, but almost always in a state of independence and solitude. Sometimes, she thought, he seemed to prefer it that way. But not always.

This was all she could could remember. She said nothing of it, closed his fingers into a fist and let his hand drop back into the soapy water. He was very relaxed, leaning back with his head on the rim of the tub, eyes closed. In this moment, she felt as if she were looking in on some private moment of Arthur's. Their love was new, and while they had fallen hard into a regular pattern of intimacy, she knew that a part of him would always be separate from her. Not in a bad way, just in a real way. She could not share his body, or his mind. That was just a complex strangeness of loving someone this much. No matter how much she wanted to climb inside of him and live there, she could not. She sighed. Her sigh must have sounded like something—something loaded. He opened his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he said, scrubbing one of his hands into her hair.

She shrugged. “I miss the river,” she said.

This made him laugh. He looked at her, real hard. “Me, too,” he said. Then he sat up, disturbing the water. Some of it splashed out of the tub and onto the floor. He became serious. “You sure you wanna do this?” he said. "The party?"

She got wistful. She was flushed in her cheeks and on her chest. She could feel it. She had fair skin that could get a little splotchy with the heat. “Yes,” she said, smiling big, real positive, just like she was wont to do.

 

Meanwhile, John and Charles stayed down at the bar a little while longer. Once the poker game ended, the tables began to clear out, and the bartender dimmed the lights, and the overall mood of the place changed. It was no longer lively and awake and instead became blue and filled with mystery. The boys each ordered a big glass of bourbon like a nightcap and sat across from one another at a booth in the corner, listening to the smoky sounds of the piano. They sat in comfortable silence for most of ten minutes, drinking and watching the people go in and out of the saloon double doors. Then, at some point, Charles cleared his throat and began to speak.

“I haven’t been here that long,” he said, turning the heavy glass slowly between his hands.

"And?" said John.

"And," said Charles. “I still think I know Arthur.”

“He’s an open book when he wants to be,” said John, watching the bartender. He was drying a glass with a long, linen towel. 

“I get that,” said Charles. “But I just—I get the sense that he hasn’t been happy for a long time. I've been meaning to talk to him about it, but it's been a lot going on, for everyone.”

John nodded. He took a long drink and looked down at the scars in his knuckles. “He’s had some fucked up shit happen to him,” he said. “I mean, we all have, but losing a kid? I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Jack.”

“Arthur had a kid?” said Charles.

“Yeah,” said John. “He died, maybe nine years ago? Murdered. Him and his mama. He should be thirteen now, on his way to becoming a man. Instead—” John trailed off. He shook his head.

“Jesus,” said Charles.

“I know,” said John, taking a drink. “But Arthur. He just wears it, you know? He don’t complain. I don’t know how he found the will to get past it, but he did.”

Charles finished his glass in one long swallow. He set it down, his eyes watery. “I’m happy for him,” he said.

“Me, too,” said John.

“He’s like a brother to you, right?” said Charles.

 John nodded again, taking a drink. “I guess so.”

Charles sighed. He took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, and then he set the pack and the matchbook on the table and slid it across the John. John took one, lit it, and they smoked. Somewhere in the room, a drunkard was yelling at a woman. The bartender slapped him across the face and a large man in a black vest came and threw him out.

“I had a girl once,” said Charles after a little while. He had smoked the cigarette down in almost no time flat. He put it out in the ash tray on the table.

“What was her name?” said John.

“May,” said Charles.

“That’s a nice name.”

“Yeah,” said Charles. “She was a nice girl. An artist. She used to mold flowers and animals out of clay. We met in Boulder, maybe a year before I met Dutch.”

“What happened?” said John.

“A fever,” said Charles. That was all he said. He then removed one more cigarette from the pack and set it on the table.

John just stared at him. It was so sad. “I’m real sorry, Charles,” he said. “That’s no good.”

“You’re lucky,” said Charles. He took out his knife.

“What do you mean?”

“Abigail,” he said. He split the cigarette open with the tip of the knife. He flattened it and removed some of the tobacco, sprinkling it to the floor. “Don’t blow that, man.” He then took a little bag of dried marijuana plant out his front pocket. He broke apart one of the buds and put the plant inside the guts of the cigarette with the tobacco. Then, he closed up the cigarette and sealed it with his tongue. “You want one?”

John finished his whiskey. He set down his glass, and he slid it to the wall. “Sure,” he said. Then he stared at the cigarette.

John hadn’t smoked marijuana since he and Arthur had scored a bagful off a belligerent bull rider in Kansas City, five years before. In fact, it had been the same year Dutch had brought home Mary Beth and the year that Abigail would get pregnant. It was also the year before John would leave the gang. When he left, he went to Salt Lake City and joined a pack of moonshiners for a couple months. When that didn’t pan out, he stole a wagon off them, bought a shack in the hills near Logan and drank himself to a right stupor. He felt bad about everything. He felt bad about Abigail, about the baby, about Arthur. He couldn’t shake it, so he drank. At some point, he decided he had to go back, but it was too late, and Dutch and the boys were long gone. He spent the next five months searching for them. It was harder than he’d realized. He never told no one that was how long it took. He found them, eventually, in Arizona, when word hit that a couple of blots-on-the-town had robbed a bank in Flagstaff. The pictures on the wall in the Sheriff’s Station were of Arthur, Bill, and Karen. A goddam fuckin trio if he ever saw one. He almost cried, he was so relieved. He tracked them to the heels of Oklahoma not two weeks past. When he showed up to camp, it was the middle of the night, but Arthur being Arthur, was out chopping wood all by himself. When he saw John, he came right over, beat the living shit out of him. John had no recourse. He tried to fight back at first, but after a while it was clear that Arthur was his superior in strength and also in pure, unmitigated rage. John came out of it with a fucked up face and his arm in a sling. They didn’t speak at all for weeks.

He got high with Charles and then together, the two of them went for a walk along the city streets, looking at all the painted doves there and how they posed, trapped tightly in their gilded cage of St. Denis.


	22. The Gilded Cage, Pt. 2

Two days earlier, John and Abigail sat drinking big glasses of water out on the balcony of Shady Belle. It was the morning after the storm. The yard in front of Shady Belle was all full of puddles, some of them two inches deep. Jack was out there in his bare feet, splashing and running around with Cain the dog. They had a view of him from where they sat. At one point, Micah walked by and barked something incoherent at the boy. John flinched, but Arthur was standing nearby the commotion and casually grabbed Micah by the collar, yanking him hard and tossing him to the earth with an unforeseen force of derision. Micah laughed while Arthur walked away, but he didn’t fuck with the boy again. John sighed and took a drink of his water and then he looked at Abigail who seemed lost in a dream.

“Babe?” said John, trying to get her attention. “Hey, babe.”

She blinked a bunch of times, looked at him. “What is it?”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, smiling, smoothing her hands over her dress. “Why?”

“You just looked a little dreamy.”

“Oh, please,” she said, blushing. “I don’t get dreamy, John Marston. Now tell me about your fishing trip with Arthur.”

John sighed, looked down at his glass of water. It was rainwater and therefore very cool and delicious. Pearson was enterprising and had put out buckets the night before. “A lot happened, actually.”

“Nothing bad I hope. The two of you need to come to your senses already. You’re like brothers for Christ’s sake.”

“I know,” said John. “I know, Abigail. And we are, I think. It was good actually. We talked about…a lot of stuff.”

“Good,” she said, patting him on the knee. Then she looked back out over the balcony, watching Jack with the dog.

“You know, we discussed one thing in particular that I wanted to…talk to you about.”

“Yeah?” said Abigail. She smiled now in his direction. She was so pretty, in this very pure, natural way. She was like that glass of rainwater.

He took a drink. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s about him and Mary Beth.”

“The two of them fill my heart,” she said. She looked down at her clean, clear water. “It’s about time they found each other, if you ask me.”

“Sure,” said John. “It’s great. I couldn’t agree more.”

“And?”

“And,” he said, straightening up a little in his seat. He kind of leaned toward her. “And they’re leaving.”

She looked up, concerned. “Leaving?” she said. “Leaving where?”

“Leaving the gang.”

“What?”

“Leaving the gang, Abigail.”

“I heard you,” she said. She started to resituate her skirt. It was a long blue and white plaid, an elegant number she’d sewn herself. She was pioneering, Abigail. She knew how to rise perfectly even from one occasion to the next. “Why didn’t Mary Beth mention anything.”

“Well it ain’t in stone,” said John. “No definite plans as of yet. But they’re leaving.”

“Where they gonna go?”

“Up north,” said John. “Wisconsin.”

“Wisconsin?” said Abigail. “What’s up there? Cows?”

“I got no idea,” said John. “But, probably.”

Abigail’s face fell a little bit, but he could tell she was trying to be happy. “Well, that is a surprise.”

“Why you look so glum?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, John. You telling me two of our closest friends are about to up and leave. It kind of kills the conversation.”

“I wasn’t done yet,” said John.

She gave him a look. “Well then, finish,” she said.

He sighed, looking right at her. “Arthur said we should come with them.”

Abigail had been sipping her water. When he said this, she stopped abruptly, swallowed, and then set her water down on the floor. “Go with em? To Wisconsin?”

He nodded. “You, me, and Jack. I guess the dog, too. Though we didn’t discuss the dog.”

“John,” said Abigail. “Are you shitting me?”

“No,” he said. “Why?”

“You wanna go?”

“Maybe,” said John, taking on a defensive posture. They were still at odds in immediate ways. They still did not trust each other the way they should have. “Why not?”

“I ain’t got no reason why not,” said Abigail. “I just—have you thought it through?”

“Thought what through?”

She rolled her eyes. “What are you gonna do, John Marston? You and Arthur gonna rob trains up in Wisconsin?”

“Shit no,” said John. “This ain’t about robbing trains. Hell, I don’t even know if they got trains up in Wisconsin.”

“Of course they do,” said Abigail. “They got trains everywhere.”

“Whatever,” said John. “It ain’t about that. It’s about starting fresh. Who knows what we’ll do. But Arthur seems—he seems confident.”

“He does?”

“Yeah. He thinks we can do anything we want up there. We got a little money, between us. We could put it down on a piece of land, some livestock. Breed horses, herd sheep. You and Mary Beth is friends. It sounds—it sounds like it could work.”

“You’re serious,” said Abigail. A piece of hair had fallen from its rightful place atop her head. He leaned forward to tuck it away for her.

“I am,” he said. “For once, Abigail. I swear.”

She looked away, like she did not believe him.

“Look at me,” he said.

It took her a moment.

“Abbie. Look at me.”

So she did. He didn’t call her Abbie all that much. But when he did, she always seemed to respond. Her eyes were very crisp and very clear that day, like windows. “What?” she said.

“I know I done you wrong,” he said, earnest. “You and Jack. I know.”

“And?”

“And I thought I made it clear, after all that business with Bronte, I’m trying to change.”

“Can you?” she said.

He sighed. He still had his fingers lingering at her ear. She wasn’t pulling away. “Like I said. I’m trying,” he said.

She seemed to soften a little now, in her way. Somewhere, down below in the yard, Cain was barking, and Miss Grimshaw was telling him to shut the fuck up. “So you wanna leave the gang with Arthur and Mary Beth?”

“Maybe,” he said. “That depends on what you wanna do. Do you wanna stay? Keep believin in Dutch? Or do you wanna go? Make our own luck somewhere else? I’m listening, Abigail. Just tell me what you want.”

He could see her chest rising and falling, as she was breathing in a way that suggested she might burst into tears. She did not, however her eyes did glisten some. “I want…I want to get the fuck out of here. You know I do.”

“We could be a family,” said John. “No more of this weird fuckin bullshit, living in a broken down mansion in the middle of the fuck forsaken swamps, bunking with fifteen other people, half of whom are drunk for a living. It ain’t normal, Abbie. It ain’t good. Not for you, not for Jack.”

“What about Dutch?” she said. “What’s he gonna say? You think he’s gonna just let you boys traipse out of here like nothing at all? He’s got a hold on you, both of you.”

“I don’t know,” said John. “Truth be told, I don’t much care at this point. Dutch has gone batty. He’s starting to scare me.”

“But Arthur must care,” she said. “Nothing matters more to Arthur than loyalty.”

“We’re being loyal to what matters,” said John. “That’s just the better choice. Don’t you think?”

She was staring at him, searching, trying to find the lie, the thing that made him weak. She didn’t find it. “I do,” she said.

“Good,” said John. He was feeling assertive. He was feeling fine. He finished off his water and he looked out over the edge of the balcony into the eye of the swamps. “Arthur says they got lily farms up there.”

“Lily farms?” said Abigail, real starry. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Me neither,” said John.

It was like a dream.

 

Now.

Arthur and Mary Beth arrived fashionably late to the party at Mayor Lamieux’s house, just as Dutch had planned. In the coach on the way over, Mary Beth had had a shot of rye whiskey and Arthur had two. They were welcomed to the house and ushered through by a short sycophant with a thick French accent, and they arrived at their destination just in time to hear Dutch himself beginning his hand at small talk with skinny-legs Angelo Bronte. Bronte was outfitted in what looked like high society pajamas, and though he was very shiny and very fashionable, his distinctly _Roman_ sense of style clashed considerably with the French _bigness_ of the house in which he stood. Mary Beth could not help but notice all of the expensive artwork on the walls. The portraits were stark and seemed to judge her. The decorating in this house was not to her taste, a little too full of _trends_ and _arts décoratifs_ and seeming to scream with ostentation. Mary Beth liked simple objects in simple spaces that made her feel simple. She liked romantic details like patchwork quilts in primary colors and wooden animal menageries and heavy furniture that was judiciously worn. She liked big white bedspreads and pale blue curtains. She liked circle rugs with yellow fringe. She did not like _fashion._ She did not like _pomp._

Even still, the house glittered furiously, she thought, though you couldn’t see where the glitter was coming from. It sort of just hung around suspiciously at the edges of your vision, making you woozy and unclear and full of a bad feeling like you had no business in this chilly palace of foreign dreams. She felt uncomfortable for many reasons. She trusted no one in her immediate view, not even the servants.

Together, they stood at the double doors leading out to the balcony, their feet on the very hard marble. She could smell cigar smoke. They listened to the conversation outside, just a little bit, as Bronte leaned over the railing with Dutch, passing judgment over each and every high status guest of the party at the mayor’s house. There was the mayor himself, there was a dictator, a newspaper man. All of them sounded like awful people, but none of them as awful as Bronte, who seemed to think he was above them all. There was contention between Bronte and Dutch, Mary Beth discerned. Bronte was insulting to the Native contingent, and to the construct of America on the whole, and she knew that this would bring Dutch to a higher temperature. She could see the annoyance grating at Dutch’s insides, fraying him around his fragile edges. She’d known him long enough, and she could see it in his eyes—the veiled but throat-slitting severity of his wrath. It was a sinister flash and very deep, but it was there.

She yanked on Arthur then, pulling him down to her level, wondering if perhaps she was drunk by mistake. “Maybe that shot of rye wasn’t such a good idea,” she said.

Arthur was cool as a cucumber. “You’ll be fine, Mrs. Kilgore.”

“I’m sweating like a goddam pig, and I don’t like it here.”

“Ain’t you got a fan hidden in your bustle or something?”

“Yes,” she said, “but it ain’t my plan to use it right up until the very end of the interaction. I can’t take it out now.”

“What happens at the end of the interaction?”

“Drama,” she said.

Amused, Arthur nodded. He said, “Well, I suppose we should go out.”

“I suppose,” said Mary Beth, studying Dutch still and all that worrisome circumstance happening out on the balcony. “This is a bad scene, Arthur.”

“Which part?”

“ _Bronte._ I robbed fifty assholes like him in Kansas City.”

“I don’t know about that, Mary Beth.”

“What don’t you know?”

Arthur sighed. He looked at her.

“What is it, Arthur.”

“Just don’t underestimate him,” he said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Okay?”

“I ain’t.” She fawned a little, at his touch. He cleaned up real nice. He smelled good, and he had gone to the barber and got his hair combed, pomaded, trimmed. He still had some scruff on his cheeks. The tux pulled him together in golden ways. She’d never seen a man looking so good in her whole life. He made her feel better, just him being there. “Don’t worry.”

When they got outside, they could finally hear the verve and excitement brewing at the party below. Dutch wasted no time. His anger broke. He became gregarious again, and Mary Beth could see the shifting in his demeanor—could feel it. It was palpable.

“Tacitus!” he said, coming right up to them, shaking Arthur’s hand and then escorting him by the arm right out to Bronte. “It’s about time you got here, my boy.”

“This is who, now?” said Bronte.

Mary Beth hung back, a few steps behind, her head dipped, hiding beneath her avian hat. Dutch cleared his throat. “Signor Bronte, let me introduce you to my associate, Tacitus Kilgore. Whether that’s his real name or an alias, I’ll let you decide.” He laughed like a regular believable schmuck.

“Mr. Kilgore,” said Bronte. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“Oh you have no idea,” said Arthur, bowing, just a little. He could play a very good blowhard when the occasion called for it. “This is quite a…soiree going on here, if I do say so myself.”

“Yes well, the mayor, he is a glutton for popularity. What can I say.”

“Not much, I expect,” said Arthur.

“And who is this…?” said Bronte, eyeballing Mary Beth. “You brought a woman to our proceedings? Very brave indeed.”

She looked up from beneath the wide, blue brim of her hat. Bronte eyed her like a mystery.

Dutch interjected. “This is Mrs. Kilgore, Signor Bronte. Brand new wife of Tacitus here. She could not bear to be away from him. Not even for the night.”

This brought a great deal of joy and surprise to Bronte. “A _wife_?” said Bronte. “I was not aware that cowboys took wives.”

“They take a lot more than that,” said Mary Beth, batting her eyelashes. “If you catch my drift.”

“And we aren’t cowboys,” said Dutch, strained. “Though it’s a common misconception, we don’t actually herd cattle.”

Bronte was quiet for a moment, but then he exploded with laugher. Dutch did as well. Bronte found this to be hilarious. The whole exchange was like a circus sideshow, thought Mary Beth. Fuckin idiot men. Bronte looked around at his shifty-eyed entourage. “I like this man,” he said. “You like this man?”

They all nodded and laughed conspicuously.

A fastidious servant came around then, with three cigars laid in parallel on a silver platter. Arthur took one, as did Dutch, as did Bronte. Dutch proceeded with his introduction, waving his cigar about, as a prop. “Mrs. Kilgore here,” he said, “is an oil heiress from Galveston, Texas. Isn’t that right, my sweet?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mary Beth.

“Her daddy is an ex-outlaw turned oil tycoon. She is a relatively new addition to our family, joined us only two months ago.” Dutch held out his cigar for the servant, who lit it with prudence. He smoked, looking right at her. “A fine piece of work if you ask me.”

“An oil heiress?” said Bronte. “How…uniquely American.”

“Indeed,” said Arthur. He’d bit the cap straight off his cigar, spat it to the ground. Now the servant lit his, too. “Go on, Marie. Say hi to the nice man.”

Mary Beth smiled. She took a few steps forward, walking in a way that made her big skirt swing from side to side.

Bronte held out his hand. “Madame Kilgore,” he said, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “It is…a pleasure. You are married to the cowboy here?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, demurely.

“Tell me about the…eh…appeal in such dire atrocities.” He laughed.

Mary Beth just smiled. She did not laugh. Instead, she became big with her performance. She liked to use her hands a lot while talking, but this time, she was very composed. She approached him with confidence. She picked up one of his hands in her own. This took him by surprise, but he did not protest. “Well, Mr.—” She looked up at him, feigning confusion. “What was it again?”

Arthur almost choked on the smoke in his own lungs.

Bronte balked. “Eh, Bronte,” he said. “Angelo Bronte.”

“Right, right,” she said. “Mr. _Bronte._ ” She really chewed the _r._  “You know, in my station,” she continued, focused, “it ain’t hard to come across carefully coiffed men with very soft, small, manicured…hands…and a big old barrel of money, ready to whisk me off my feet!” She studied _his_ hands. “Of course, they’re all a bunch of sissies. When it comes down to it. _You_ know what I mean. They’re afraid of getting dirty, of making a _big_ noise. But a real woman knows that the only way to get her…skirts ruffled…if you will…is to find a man who ain’t afraid of using his hands. Who goes out into the physical world, roughs it up a little, and leaves it different than it was when he got there. Not a sissy, Mr. _Bronte_ , and I’ll tell you money don’t make no man! I mean…a force. You ever seen a real man’s hands?”

Arthur was totally miffed. His cigar was burning but had not been smoked yet. He’d been watching her with relative awe.

“I—uh—” mumbled Bronte, “I suppose I have not.”

Mary Beth turned to Arthur. “Show em, Tacitus.”

He came to, surfacing, shook out his head, realized he was being called upon. He obliged. “My pleasure,” he said. He hitched the stogie to the corner of his mouth, took off one white glove. He held out his right hand. It was like a boulder in comparison to Bronte’s, truly it was. Bronte stood, looking, awkwardly. Then Arthur broke the moment by holding his bare hand out for a hearty shake. Bronte took it, firm at first, but hesitant.

Arthur smiled right at him, lowered his voice to improvise, took the cigar out of his mouth and ashed it directly onto the floor. “Forgive me, Signor Bronte,” he said. “My fair lady Marie is a bit of a firecracker. I can’t even predict her myself.”

Bronte laughed, finally, nervously. “Yes, I can see that, Mr. Kilgore,” he said. “Tell me, where did you say you found her again?”

“Galveston, Texas,” said Arthur, smirking. He withdrew his hand, replaced his glove. “I was robbing a bank. She was there. Came away with a lot more than stacks of cash that day, if you know what I mean.” He laughed. Dutch laughed.

Bronte became nervous, again, with the laughter.

Dutch slowly reentered the conversation then, asserting himself via the smoke from his cigar. Bronte said nothing more. “Well,” said Dutch, looking from Bronte to Arthur to Mary Beth, “now that you’ve made your…impression, Mrs. Kilgore—” He laughed. They all laughed. Except for Bronte, who seemed sweaty. “—Why don’t you and your rough-handed husband head down to the party, mingle a little. I’ll be down soon to…meet you for a drink.”

“Sounds good,” said Arthur, holding out his arm. His voice was warm and deep and it defused the moment all by itself.

Mary Beth took his arm, and then she flipped the fan from her skirts. Very dramatic. “Bye, Mr. _Bronte,_ ” she said, smiling. “Don’t forget what I said.”

Arthur patted Mary Beth’s arm and smiled. “Let’s go, darlin.”

“Mmm,” she said.

They left the balcony.

Bronte blinked, several times. He had not yet begun to smoke his cigar. “Who did you say she was again?” he said.

“Marie Kilgore,” said Dutch. “I would give you her maiden name, but in truth, I cannot recall what it was. They didn’t get married in no church, Signor Bronte.”

“I see,” said Bronte, halfway shaken. He leaned out over the balcony rail again, seeming to survey the scene. “An interesting woman.”

“That, she is,” said Dutch, smoking, eyeballing Arthur and Mary Beth who emerged from the long, twisting staircase, stepping into the garden of thieves below. “That, she is.”

 

When they got downstairs, slipping into the swaths of glamorous humans, Arthur was somewhat speechless. He crossed his arms over his chest. They stopped beneath the cover of a silvery tree.

Mary Beth noticed him staring. “What?” she said, putting away her fan. “Did I do okay?”

“That was very good, Miss Gaskill,” he said.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “I can rightly say I didn’t know you had that in you.”

“Didn’t have what?” she said.

“Huge cowboy balls.”

She laughed. She laughed really hard.

“I’m serious,” he said, admiring. “You put that man off balance. I’m very impressed.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Kilgore,” she said, curtsying. Then she reached into the pocket of her skirt. “I stole his pocket watch, too.”

Arthur’s eyes got big. He grabbed the watch from her hand and looked around, making sure no one saw. “Jesus,” he said.

“It was right there,” she said. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Mrs. Kilgore, what are we gonna do with you?” A servant walked by with a tray of champagne. When he was looking away, Arthur dropped the watch into the bottom of one of the bubbling flutes.

“Arthur!” she laughed.

“Come on,” he said, hurried, taking her hand. “We must find a way to moderate your addiction to subterfuge. At least for the time being. Champagne perhaps? Or you wanna jump straight to gin.”

“I wonder what the mayor has in his pockets,” said Mary Beth, surveying the party. “Ain’t that him over there? By the fountain.”

Arthur followed after her gaze, squinting against the low, gold light of the garden. The entire affair was full of tasteful ruckus and women wearing huge hats that all looked just like Mary Beth’s, just like birds. “I reckon that is him,” said Arthur.

“That man standing with him looks familiar.”

“Which man?” said Arthur.

“The one with the mutton chops,” she said. “Well, other man with the mutton chops.”

“Familiar how?” 

She studied him for a long time. Arthur watched, could sort of see the gears going on beneath the surface, a slow light emerging. Another servant happened by with another tray of champagne. Arthur took two flutes, one for him and one for Mary Beth. Mary Beth took the flute but did not drink at first. And after a moment, something came together, and she perked up, with wonder. 

“It’s Evelyn Miller,” she said, squinting. “That’s right.”

“Evelyn Miller?” said Arthur. “The writer?”

“Yes,” said Mary Beth. “That’s him.”

"No shit," he said, almost starstruck for a moment. “How do you know what Evelyn Miller looks like?”

“Dutch has read to me from his book— _The American Inferno—_ dozens of times. He’s leant it to me more times than that. It ain’t my cup of tea, but there’s a picture of Evelyn Miller on the last page. That’s him.”

“That’s amazin,” said Arthur. Then he sort of wondered at something, off-hand. “Mary Beth,” he went on, “is Dutch still sweet on you? I mean I know I seen him hanging around, back at Clemens Point.”

Mary Beth shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, disinterested. “He’s made passes, sure. But trust me, Arthur, it’s nothing unique.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Dutch’s attention with women is fleeting. Just because he’s got his sights on you one day, that don’t mean it’s gonna last. Just ask Molly.”

Arthur sighed. He knew exactly what she meant, and how it had been true. He had a bad feeling. Molly wasn’t doing so good. He wondered why she continued to stick around, if she could truly love him that much. He looked at Evelyn Miller then, who was in some sort of serious conversation with the Natives. Then he looked back up to the balcony. Dutch was there, still, alone. Watching. He was looking out over the proceedings from beneath the dark brim of his hat. He didn’t see Arthur looking at him. He was leaning on the rail and thinking deeply, tightly wound with a threatening posture. He seemed to suck all the energy out of the affair and right into himself, an endless magnetic pit. Arthur shook out his head, looked back at Mary Beth. She was warm and beautiful in comparison. She seemed to radiate heat, light, energy. She was the opposite of Dutch in every way.

Arthur was not always the quickest man to the uptake. He was smart, but he didn’t trust himself, and that tended to leave him behind. Still, he knew Dutch had been soft for Mary Beth. It was obvious. She was pretty and book-learned. He imagined that she, of all the women in the camp, would be more skilled at entertaining his philosophies than anyone. Molly, she was smart, too, and she could read and write, but she wasn’t as young and quick to the smile as Mary Beth, and now that Mary Beth was no longer nineteen, Dutch had started catching her scent. Arthur wasn’t sure how to deal with this. He wasn’t even sure if it was true, but he knew that Mary Beth, she was canny, but she didn’t always attribute suspicion where suspicion was due. She was not innocent, but even with her father and her mother and her brother dead, she had been protected from true darkness for a long time—whether it be by pure luck or the benevolence of good people, like the madame in Kansas City who taught her pickpocketing rather than whoring. And like Dutch. His head was spinning heavily now as he began to wonder on a whole new level of uncertainty, and all the different ways he couldn’t trust Dutch no more. It was infinite. And it wasn’t even about Mary Beth—it was about so much more. Arthur wasn’t no boy. He didn’t get jealous or threatened by other men. He just wasn’t sure what was going to happen, and this all made him think about the bigger picture. How Dutch was just…he was always hiding something. There was always something going on, something beneath the surface, and this was such a foreign idea to Arthur. Arthur never had any ulterior motivations or secrets. He was not a duplicitous man. He didn’t know how that worked, so it was hard for him to figure out, even if he knew it was there.

He took another drink of his champagne. He glanced casually back to the balcony, and he was startled to notice that Dutch had shifted his attention and was now looking right at him. Dutch smiled. He gave a salute. Arthur saluted him back, and then Dutch spun on his heels and disappeared inside the mansion. Arthur took a deep breath.

“You reckon you can charm the mayor, Mary Beth?” he said, growing weary of the party all of a sudden. “Insinuate us into his presence a little bit?”

Mary Beth smiled, shrugged. She took a long drink. “I know a lot about Miller,” she said. “It should be enough to get us into the conversation.”

“Good,” said Arthur. He took her hand, kissed it, though it was gloved. They began moving through the crowd together. The night was long, and it was only just beginning.

        

Meanwhile, back at camp, Abigail stood in the very dark night, by the edge of the swampy river. It glistened. It was like a nightmare. The moonlight was cool and white though the swamp was viscous and gray. She was holding a glass of whiskey, sipping it judiciously, all alone. Jack was asleep, and John was still in St. Denis. Way out in the water, she could see a shadow moving, sleepily. It was something huge—a bullgator, she thought, looking for a meal, or for a female to breed with. At first, she had been afraid, but now she was just mesmerized, wondering if it would swim any closer, if it could smell her or sense her, if it was afraid, angry, or simply curious. She heard footsteps behind her then, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Micah. He was drunk. He didn’t address her. He stumbled to Strauss’s shack, took a piss on a tree stump and then tipped over into the weeds and passed out. Watching, she thought about how easy it would be. To roll him into the water, bait for the shadow in the river, gone for good. But then she looked away. It wasn’t worth it, she thought, drinking her whiskey. There was too much to lose now. And anyway, she wasn’t that kind of girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to an unforeseen expansion in scope, this work has changed titles!! It is now called The Lily Farm. ❤️ -gala


	23. Out on a Limb with Mary Beth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [.](https://galadrieljones.tumblr.com/post/180848474651/out-on-a-limb-with-mary-beth-inspirational)

Back in their room at the saloon of St. Denis, Arthur and Mary Beth commenced undressing from the evening. It was a slow process, as neither of them was used to such elaborate sartorial affairs. Arthur was tense and very quiet as he took off his gloves, took off his tie at the dresser, untucked his shirt, and loosened his collar. Dutch had sequestered him toward the end of the party, while Mary Beth waited beside the champagne with Hosea and Bill. Hosea was subdued, scribbling something down in a leather notebook. Bill complained ceaselessly about the attitudes and accents of rich, French people, and in that time, something had happened to Arthur. When he came back, he was solemn and preoccupied, and he had barely spoken since—not to her, not to Hosea, not to anyone.

She was in her chemise now, and her powder blue bodice, with her hair down, sitting cross-legged on the bed, fussing with the rose gold bracelet around her wrist. The latch was delicate. She couldn’t get it with just one hand. At some point, Arthur leaned back against the dresser, hanging his head. He seemed like he might say something, but he didn’t.

Mary Beth watched him, real careful. She scootched up to the edge of the bed, letting her feet dangle off the mattress. She almost asked him what was wrong, but then she became discouraged. Normally, she would have, but now, she didn’t know how to navigate this part of him. She’d seen it before but never been this close. His stoicism was powerful. It wasn’t cold, but it was big. It could swallow the whole room. She sighed, looked back down at her wrist. She wasn’t gonna push him. She knew that it was Dutch making him so quiet, and she wasn’t gonna push him.

At some point, he straightened up off the dresser. He undid his cufflinks, one by one. With both gathered into his palm, he took a long look at them like they were poker chips and then set them on the dresser. They made little metallic clinks. She commenced focusing on her bracelet. She wondered why the hell anyone would make a piece of jewelry that was so impossible to get on and off. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to take it off, but in truth the metal was pricking at her skin and she did not much like metal pricking at her skin. Aside from her turquoise necklace—a hand-me-down from her mother—she didn’t really like jewelry all that much. Too much drama. Like this stupid little clasp on this stupid little bracelet. When she was almost ready to give up and just break the damn thing, Arthur approached her. Finally. He sat down next to her on the bed, and it sunk beneath his weight. Gently, he took her wrist into his hands, and he undid the little clasp of the bracelet for her. He piled the bracelet into his palm, looked at it for a moment, and then handed it back to her. He then picked up her hand, kissed her knuckles, and gave her back her hand. Then he sighed, folded his own hands together in his lap, and looked down at the floor.

She was very still. He was untucked beside her, all rumpled with no jacket, his pomade wearing off. He was just the old Arthur now—simple, undone, and hers. She was deeply touched by how he had unhooked the clasp to her bracelet, without even being asked. It was such a small but meaningful gesture. She tried to remind herself that Arthur was much better at communicating his feelings through his actions, not always words. She felt relief. She felt understood.

She waited. And after a little while, he finally spoke.

“You’re a storyteller, Mary Beth,” he said.

The sound of his voice surprised her. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and it was so deep, it could have vibrated the floor. “What?”

“I said, you’re a storyteller. A writer. You write stories.”

“Oh,” she said. “Pft. I mean, I try. What about it?”

“I wonder,” he said, looking up, wringing his hands now, “if you were writing this story, who would the villain be?”

“The villain?” she said.

"Is it Bronte?” said Arthur. “Leviticus Cornwall? Who?”

She thought on it. She was flattered but also somewhat confused. “I mean, I don’t know much about it, Arthur, besides what little you’ve told me.”

“You were there tonight,” he said. “You’ve seen enough.”

“I suppose.”

“Is it Dutch?”

“Dutch?”

“Is Dutch the villain, Mary Beth?” he said. Now he was looking at her. His blue eyes looked sad. He seemed desperate for something, anything of wisdom. “Because I gotta tell you. I’ve known the man for twenty-two years, and I still can barely make heads or tails of his motivations.”

“No one can,” she said. “It ain’t just you.”

“Just tell me,” he said, shaking his head. “Who’s the villain?”

She took a deep breath. She hadn’t thought about it like this, but now that she was, she could see with some modicum of clarity the thing that he was asking. “I don’t know, Arthur,” she said, “but if you want my honest, uneducated opinion, it seems to me that the villain in this story ain’t no who.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s not a person. It’s time, and it’s space.”

“Time and space?”

“Yeah,” she said. She looked down at the bracelet. Despite its annoying little clasp, it was still a pretty piece. “We’re running out of both, ever since Blackwater. It’s time and space that’s catching up to us. We got nowhere to run, and no time to do it.”

Arthur looked down at his hands. He closed his eyes.

“Arthur,” she said.

“Yes, Mary Beth,” he said.

“Can I just—I got a question.”

“Go on.”

“Why did we come here?”

Arthur looked at her. “To the party?”

“No,” she said. “To St. Denis.”

“We followed Bronte,” said Arthur.

“But why did we follow him here?”

“Because he took Jack.”

She shook her head. “No, he didn’t. The Braithwaites took Jack, and we got Jack back, and the Braithwaites—well, they been dealt with.”

Arthur clenched his fists, opened them up again. He had such enormous paws. “You’re right.”

“I’m just saying,” she said. “Bronte is just—he’s an illusion. A red herring. Dutch is blinded. We ought to leave, escape, while things is quiet, while we still can, but I ain’t sure escaping is his aim no more.”

“What else would he be aiming for?”

“Vengeance,” she said. “We been running from the Pinkertons for months. But the Pinkertons, that’s just Leviticus Cornwall, and Cornwall, that’s just civilization. It's  _laws._  You asked me before at the party if Dutch was still sweet on me. I don’t know, Arthur, but I have spent a lot of time with him, listening to him read from the pages of that book by our friend Evelyn Miller. Men like Bronte and Cornwall—to Dutch, they represent the death of the frontier, of freedom and the whole big American way. The West. We is all trapped, Arthur, enslaved by law, the way he sees it. They’re reshaping the world, us in it, and Dutch don’t like it. I don’t know if this is about escaping, Arthur. I think it’s about revenge. Big, cosmic revenge.”

Arthur seemed to be thinking hard on this, something sharp coming up and catching him in the chest like a fishhook. He swallowed, looked away, squeezed his eyes shut. He hands were winding together anxiously now.

“Arthur,” she said. She began to wonder if she’d said too much, gone too far.

Then he spoke, but he would not look at her. “Who am I?” he said.

“What?”

“In the story,” he said. “Am I the hero? Or am I the fool.”

He was serious, defeated. Last time she’d seem him look like this, it was when he was talking about Eliza, up on their camping trip, somewhere in the grassy canyons of Ambarino. She shook her head. She put her hand on his back, like she always would have, even when they were just friends. “I don’t know that one, Arthur.”

“Why not?” he said.

“Because I'm in love with you,” she said. “That part of the story I can’t see. It’s too close.” She thought she might cry. She got closer to him, linked her arm in his. His arms were big and warm and full of welcome for her and her alone. She placed her head on his shoulder. “You’re _my_ hero,” she said, shrugging against him. “If that means anything at all. I ain’t forgotten what happened up at O’Creagh’s Run. You saved my life, Arthur. You saved us both.” She had one hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat, his breathing. Time passed, and you could hear the ticking of the clock as it did. You could hear the people outside on the cobblestone streets, the clomping of the horses. You could hear the piano downstairs, somebody singing to the tune.

At some point, Arthur put his arm around her because of this. He kissed the top of her head, and held her like that, just for a minute to show her his gratitude. He didn’t have much to say. Not to that. What do you say to that? There was nothing. He turned toward her. He pushed all of the hair off her shoulders to see her skin and her millions of freckles. Her hair was all undone. It was all a mess, a rat’s nest, just how he liked it. He looked right down at her, full up even though he did not smile. He studied her, all the different parts of her face and how they fit together. “Thank you,” he said.

“It’s gonna be okay, Arthur,” she said, like she meant it. “We’re gonna figure it out.”

“I know,” he said. He was calm now. “I know.”

He kissed her then, finally, a long kiss. It started deep and then it became something else, though that was not necessarily what he had intended. They were both so tired, and the night had been forever, but soon their hands grew frantic, and then it was inevitable. He undid the laces of her chemise, and it slid off easy, but the bodice was new and too sturdy, and he lost his patience. He ripped it open like a shell. Like he was cracking her open. That was the sensation. Like she had many layers, and he was cracking them all wide open until he got to the soft parts, which he held and kissed in generous ways. He took her in the sheets like he was both thanking her and reminding her—sometimes smooth, sometimes gentle, sometimes hard enough that she became feral and needful as she held him close, said his name, vindicating his long held though latent belief that there was good somewhere, out there left in the world and that if he just held on long enough and did not let his grief and his anger consume him, some share of that good would come back around and become his.

He was lucky.

After, the room felt stifling hot. Arthur got up, threw the french doors open to let the air come sweeping in and cool their skin. He went downstairs and came back with a pitcher of water and a very fine bottle of Bordeaux, which the bartender gave to him for free as a thank you for his continued patronage. He and Mary Beth drank it out of the glass cups provided and drank the water right out of the pitcher, passing it back and forth until it was empty. The hour was either very late or very early. They could no longer tell the difference. At some point, Mary Beth remembered something important, and so she found her blue dress on the floor and reached into the pocket of the skirt, fishing around until Arthur asked her what the hell she was doing down there.

He was leaning against the headboard, naked, drinking his wine, waiting for her. She had thrown on the blue over shirt he’d been wearing the day before. She liked wearing his clothes. “What’s that?” he said.

Mary Beth climbed back up onto the bed and showed him—it was Angelo Bronte’s pocket watch. “I stole it back,” she said, handing it to him. “When you wasn’t looking.”

She didn’t meet his eyes at first, worried he’d disapprove. But when she finally did look at him, he was holding the watch. He set his cup down on the nightstand and looked resigned but also pensive. She was proud of what she’d done. She didn’t regret it. Still, he sighed. “You should not have, Mary Beth.”

“Ain’t no fence gonna bat an eye,” she said. Then she grabbed the watch to show him more closely. She clicked it open, showed him the face. “See these? These is diamonds, Arthur. This watch is platinum, with diamonds, and that’s a ruby there, and that there’s a trio of emeralds.”

“He’s gonna notice,” said Arthur.

“So? As to who took it, he ain't none the wiser, and you know he’s got ten more just like it. But for us, this watch could bring in a couple thousand dollars, Arthur. Easy.”

“And?”

“And we can put it toward our lily farm,” she said, giving it back to him, closing it inside his big palm. “In Wisconsin, whenever we get there. Or, maybe not a lily farm. Maybe a horse ranch, or general store. It don’t matter. We’ll put it toward something, something of our own. One rich asshole’s watch for a whole new life. Seems worth the risk, don’t you think?”

Arthur stared at the watch, and then he stared at her—always full of her surprises and many directions at once. He gave in. They were still outlaws, after all. He gave her back the pocket watch and sighed. He closed the watch inside of both her hands, and then he closed her hands inside of his. “Best we fence it at a distance,” he said, “in Emerald Station, just in case.”

She smiled big, like the sun.

 

They left St. Denis the next morning in the carriage with John and Charles. The weather had cooled off, and there were more clouds in the distance, creeping inward off the water, looking like more rain. John seemed full of tension and happy to be getting back. He and Abigail had made their decision, it seemed, and he had told Arthur about about during a quiet moment as they both sat up front in the carriage. Arthur smoked, hands on the reins as John said that they were with him, that they were ready when the time was right, that they could be ready tomorrow if that’s what Arthur wanted. To even his own surprise, Arthur had become the de facto patriarch of their arrangement. John deferred to him on every instance and gave him his word.

“We’re loyal to each other now,” he said. “I mean that, Arthur. Okay?”

John had an ironic sensibility, it was true, but he could be sentimental as all fuck when he was sincere about something, and Arthur believed him. Arthur nodded, seriously, then put his eyes back on the road. Truth be told, he was still uneasy from the night before and yet unwilling to speak on the matter and this put a strain on almost everything. He had not yet had the opportunity to decompress his feelings about Dutch beyond those moments with Mary Beth. He needed to speak with Hosea.

He flicked his cigarette as John took to wiping down the barrel of his shotgun. He then looked out past the edge of the horizon to the endless waves of the Lanahachee and where it dumped off into the wild sea and the green clouds that swirled above it. He turned around and glanced back to where Mary Beth was in conversation with Charles about the weather, and he smiled as he listened.

“I ain’t seen no tornado since I was a girl,” she said. “But they used to rip through Shawnee like no tomorrow.”

“Shawnee. That’s where you’re from?” said Charles.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did they hit the city?”

She shook her head. She was eating a plum. When she finished, she tossed the pit out the side of the carriage and wiped her hands off on her skirt. “They’d dance around the city like ballerinas. It was so strange.”

“I’ve never seen one,” said Charles, chewing on a piece of leather and whittling a little polar bear out of wood with a carving knife. “A tornado. It must be spectacular.”

“They sound like freight trains.”

“Yes, well. I can imagine they’d be pretty loud.”

When they approached the tree tunnel that would eventually take them off the main road and through an arboreal vortex to Shady Belle, a chilly wind came through with some rain on its edges. They all shivered. They then saw a strange sight grazing on the turnips growing wild by the edge of the trees. It was a great big draft horse, a mare, all alone, hanging out and saddled with no rider, looking like she had wandered in out of nowhere. As they got closer, Arthur straightened up. He pulled back on the reins to put the carriage at a full stop. He tossed his cigarette and studied the horse, which he dearly recognized.

“What’s going on?” said Mary Beth. She stood up and put her hands on his shoulders, leaning forward to see what he was seeing. “Is that Diana?”

“It sure is,” said Arthur.

“What’s she doing out here?” said John.

“I got no idea,” said Arthur.

He hopped off the carriage then, and he began to approach Diana, his old Ardennes who had retired a month back. He was careful, just in case she'd been spooked. He held out his hands and spoke to the horse in a calming fashion, but she recognized him immediately. She did not start or stir. She licked his hand as he got closer. He patted her behind the ears and smiled at her softly. “Hey, girl,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”

Mary Beth climbed off the carriage. She was coming toward Arthur cautiously.

“That’s weird,” said Arthur. “It ain’t like Diana to wander.”

“Strange,” said Mary Beth, looking around.

“Didn’t you mention that Kieran was taking her out, a few days back?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Before the storm hit. He hadn’t returned by the time we left for St. Denis.”

“Kieran wouldn’t have let her wander out the camp like this.”

“I know,” said Mary Beth. She bit off a hangnail, looked around again, a little frantic this time.

Arthur watched her fretting. “You worried?”

John and Charles were getting antsy now back at the carriage. “What’s going on?” said John.

Arthur dusted his hands together. “Did either of you see the O’Driscoll boy before we headed off for St. Denis?” 

“No,” said John.

“I don’t think so,” said Charles. “Why?”

Arthur turned back to Mary Beth. “Do you know where he was headed?”

“Rhodes,” said Mary Beth. “Oh gosh, Arthur. Do you think something bad happened?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” he said. “We’ll head into camp. He might be there.”

“And if he ain’t?”

Arthur took a deep breath, placed his hands on his hips. “If ain’t, then we’ll deal with that then.”

Arthur gestured for John to take over the reins on the carriage after that. Then he mounted Diana and rode at a trot alongside them the whole way back to camp. When they got there, he hitched her up at the horse station and fed her an apple, and then he, Mary Beth, John, and Charles commenced their way up through the yard and back to the house. It was business as usual, with Pearson preparing the stew for the evening and carving a deer hung up by its haunches. Abigail ceased her knitting by the dried up old fountain and greeted John in a bashful manner that suggested she was happy to see him but was unwilling to openly express herself. Jack and Cain came running around front. Sadie was feeding the chickens and Javier was chopping firewood. The Reverend was passed out on the grass by the gazebo while Tilly tried to nudge him awake, concerned for his health. Karen and Lenny had been on perimeter duty, with their shotguns resting on their shoulders, drinking whiskey out of tin cups and discussing the foreboding weather, while Mrs. Grimshaw was scrubbing the floors inside the house. Uncle was passed out against one of the covered wagons, and Micah nursed a hangover by the fire, drinking his hair of the dog. Dutch, Hosea, and Bill had not yet returned from St. Denis.

Mary Beth, Arthur, and Charles went around, asking if anyone had seen Kieran. Had anyone seen the O’Driscoll boy, they asked. Was he somewhere in Shady Belle, hanging out where they could not see? Did he ever find his way back after the storm. They asked everybody, one by one, and the universal answer they received was _no_. Nobody had seen or heard from Kieran in three days.

He was, in fact, missing.

Mary Beth became sick with worry after that. They stood at the scout fire as the wind picked up in the swamps all around.

”Arthur, we gotta find him,” she said. "This ain't good."

Arthur looked at her, and then he looked at Charles.

Charles nodded. “I’ll ride with you,” he said. “We can do our best to track him. But the rain ain’t gonna make it easy.”

Arthur nodded. “We should wait it out,” he said. "Hope the rain don't do too much damage. No use getting caught in a storm.”

”I agree,” said Charles.

But Mary Beth was hurried. “I wanna come with,” she said. "To find him. When you go."

Arthur gave her a look. “No.”

”Why not?”

”Because,” he said. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for, Mary Beth.”

“Then there ain’t no set reason I can’t,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Somewhere over the water, thunder cracked. Arthur glanced, and then he sighed, sounding torn. “It might not be safe, Mary Beth,” he said. “I won’t put you in danger.”  

“He’s my friend,” she said, sensing his ambivalence, softening. She uncrossed her arms. “I been out robbing with you before, and you just took me on a ten-day hunting trip up into the Roanoke Valley. I can do it."

"Mary Beth."

"Don’t make this something it ain’t," she said. She was reading his mind. "Arthur. Please.”

He felt a cold pain in his chest, a tug. He sighed. He could no longer tell. How dangerous was it? What were they even hunting anymore? Up at O'Creagh's Run they'd been hunting moose, and they got hunted instead. By psychopaths. Everything had become so unpredictable. Everything was wooly. It felt like he was dreaming again. He looked at Charles, who shrugged. “It could be nothing, man,” he said.

Arthur closed his eyes. He placed his hands on his hips, hung his head so that his chin nearly touched his chest. He had a bad feeling, but he relented. “Fine," he said. "We leave as soon as the storm passes.”

“Sounds good,” said Charles.

“Thank you,” said Mary Beth. 

He gave her a long, worried look, tried to smile. Little raindrops started falling from the sky. “We best get inside,” he said.

Mary Beth watched him go on to the house. She said she'd be right there. Then she sort of waited back, and Tilly came along and wanted to hear from her all about the party. Mary Beth was eager to talk to Tilly, but Tilly was a bit of a gossip. She wanted to know all about her and Arthur, even more so than Abigail, but Mary Beth felt private about her and Arthur. She wasn't ready yet to tell anyone about her and Arthur getting married. It still felt like something secret, something new to nourish, an intimate truth between them, and she felt like if they let it go too soon, it would slip away. So much of their lives they had to share, and that can make things feel diluted, less real. She wanted every moment she spent with him to be as real as possible. So she hung out with Tilly in the gazebo for a little while, protected from the weather and talking only about the glittering fools of St. Denis. She smiled demurely all the time and thought about Arthur. She knew he was protective of her safety. It was another part of him that she appreciated, like his stoicism, but that she was not always so sure on how to navigate. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was bad. From the gazebo, she saw Charles prepping the horses for the coming rain. She saw the rest of the camp begin its lazy migration to the indoors. Tilly was so eager. She wanted to see Mary Beth's dress from the party. Mary Beth blushed. It was all in a pile in a canvas sack, getting soaked in the back of the carriage, by the storm. 

 

Meanwhile, Arthur felt pressure on all sides. He was thinking about O'Creagh's Run, all those things he got from talking to the veteran Hamish Sinclair, the subtext about starting the rest of his life as soon as possible. He felt sucked back in now. The distance provided to him by their time up in the Roanoke Valley and nights talking with the Wintersons in Emerald Station was feeling more and more like an illusion. He didn't want to lose it, wanted to get back there but the more he reached the more it all seemed to fade out of reality and into the scenery of dreams. They were out on a limb. There was no rest here. It was a constant balancing act and all he wanted to do was rest. 

When he got back to his quarters, Arthur sat by the window and listened to the advancing rain in solitude. He heard a bit of scrambling outside as Mrs. Grimshaw and Mr. Pearson got into some sort of argument over the stew. He smoked and opened his journal for the first time since he and John had returned from their fishing trip.

 _The O'Driscoll boy has disappeared,_  he wrote. He ashed his cigarette directly into a tin can as the rain got steadier and the thunder rolled. His pencil was dull. He sharpened it with the tip of his knife and then he continued.  _I will admit that I don't feel good about that._ _Charles said it could be nothing._

_But it could be something._

He thought he heard someone coming up the stairs but it could have just been another illusion. He smoked.


	24. The Heartlands

_In any case, I have grown tired in ways I cannot rightly explain._

_I’m not sure what might have happened to Kieran. Most likely, he ended up out on a fishing trip, or a gallavant that simply extended beyond his original intentions. Diana could have spooked and tossed his ass and hightailed it back to camp without him. It could be anything. Mary Beth wants to come along and I had no choice but to let her. I ain’t her father. And I know she can do okay in a whole host of situations, but if it comes to shooting I don’t know. She may be a damn good conwoman and a savvy pickpocket, but she ain’t no killer. I love her. I’d do anything to keep her safe, and in any case, I guess I’m just afraid. I can’t shake that part of myself. I fear it will always be there—after everything. She knows it. I just don’t know how to protect her and how to keep making this life work no more. And Jesus Christ I have been so careless. We’ve been. Careless. I don’t know why. It just feels right, letting go inside her like nature running its course, like the way it’s supposed to be but shit. If she gets pregnant while we’re still here, toiling in this war of ours…I’m right terrified. I don’t know what to do. I should’ve said no to Dutch, and yet, I did not. Hosea was right, as usual. I need to use my goddam head._

_I just always want to believe. I’ve been so blinded by my desire to just…please Dutch. It ain’t fair no more. I’m still out on this limb, and now Mary Beth is out here with me. And if we keep making it like we do, soon it’ll be an innocent among us and I ain’t letting no more of my own blood spill into the earth. I ain’t doing that. ~~Not again.~~_

_Dutch thinks we can get money out of this Bronte fellow. He talked to me about it last night, after that fool’s party we attended. Something about a trolley station. A poker game on a goddam river boat. I see things differently, and Mary Beth confirmed my suspicions. Of course, she did it with intelligence and grace, whereas my thoughts tend to come out as gravy these days. Mary Beth was a sight to see with Bronte. Once again she’s proven she’s too good for me, and yet here we are. We’re getting married. Still ain’t told no one—not sure why. It just don’t feel right yet to make a big deal. But I do know that it ain’t like last time. It ain’t Mary. Mary could not commit to huge parts of me, my life. With her, I was a fool. But Mary Beth’s love for me feels…honest. It’s for the right reasons. She is loyal to me. I don’t know what I have done to deserve this bounty she brings, but I ain’t letting it get away._

_We are setting out to find the O’Driscoll boy as soon as this storm clears. It rains so goddam much down in this hellhole state I have forgotten what season it is. It’s perpetually the hottest it’s ever been, and I will say, I miss the fresh air to the north. She does, too._

 

They rode out of Shady Belle at about four o’clock. It was later than Arthur had hoped for, as this meant they would most definitely be gone into the night, but putting things off would have been worse. The rain had brought a chill to the air that made everybody uncomfortable. It was a damp chill. Mary Beth wore a brown leather scout jacket with an ornamental purple tether around the waist. It had a hood, which she kept fashioned over her tightly braided hair. Arthur outfitted her with that same shotgun from their trip to the north and a whole shitload of slugs. She wanted the gun, and it was the right choice. But once again he told her: “Do not use that gun unless you absolutely must. Understood?” by which he meant: “Do not use that gun unless you have reason to believe that I have died or will soon be dead and cannot defend you no more. Understood?”

Charles led the way to Rhodes. It was easy business, tracking Kieran at first. The clouds had gone on and most of the the townspeople were back outside and about their business. It looked like a big wind had come in and blown over a carriage full of feed corn right outside the train station. A couple of working boys were hustling to pick it all up, but the axel on their carriage was broken, and the the job looked too big for just the two of them. Arthur and Charles gave them a hand while Mary Beth went to the saloon to inquire upon whether anyone had seen a young man fitting Kieran’s description.

“He’s got long brown hair, to his shoulders,” she said, “a little scraggly, about this tall, has a scratchy voice. He would have been wearing a straw type hat, cowboy boots, dressed like a rancher, riding an Ardennes. He’s twenty years old.”

“May I inquire upon how you know the young man?”

“He’s my brother, sir. Been missing from our ranch in Scarlet Meadows for three days. Mama and I can’t make ends meet without him.”

The bartender was taken with Mary Beth. He did not even require payment for his information as he wiped down a glass with his linen towel. “I think I seen a boy like that,” he said, leaning in on his elbow. “Was in here two nights ago, waiting out the storm. Sat by himself, caused no trouble. Ordered a glass of milk.”

"That’s him,” she said. “Did he say anything about where he was headed?”

“No, ma’am,” said the bartender, topping off her glass of rose. “But toward the end of the night, a couple boys crowded him in the booth, right over there. They all left together. It was sudden.”

This was alarming to Mary Beth. “Do you know who they was?”

“Didn’t talk like they was from around here,” said the bartender. “Yankees. I heard one of them mention that they was headed in from Riggs Station, way out in West Elizabeth, if that helps.”

“It does,” said Mary Beth. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.” She finished her wine and left a generous tip. He tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted. She then went to wait for the boys in a booth at the front of the saloon. It took about ten minutes before they arrived, and she told them all about her findings.

“He said it was Yankees?” said Arthur, smoking, sitting next to her, wearing his hat with the pretty brown feather.

“Yes,” she said. “Said they crowded him and left all of a sudden.”

Arthur glanced across the table to Charles who became apprehensive.

“You think it’s O’Driscolls?” said Arthur.

“Sounds about right,” said Charles.

“What would they be doing in Lemoyne?”

“Could be they tracked us here, after that nasty shootout with the Grays, then ran into Kieran by mistake, maybe took advantage of an unlucky circumstance.”

Arthur swore under his breath, looked around, smoked. Then he looked back at Mary Beth. “Mary Beth, I think Charles and I ought to finish this one alone.”

“What?” she said. “No. I got the information. I’m coming.”

“It ain’t safe,” he said. “I’ll ride with you back to camp.”

“How do you know it ain’t safe?”

“Because I just do,” he said. “I got a bad feeling. And my bad feelings got a bad habit of coming true.”

“He’s right, Mary Beth,” said Charles. “If it is O’Driscolls, there is bound to be bloodshed.”

"I ain’t scared,” said Mary Beth.

Arthur shook his head, serious. “Please,” he said. “This ain’t for you. Let me take you back.”

She stared at him in defiance. “You know what else ain’t for me?” she said. “Hitting a man over the head with a frying pan, saving your life. Or getting carried off by Murfree Brood in a thunderstorm. Or shooting a wolf mother in the face.”

Arthur sighed.

“What’s she talking about?” said Charles.

Arthur ignored him. “You near on shot me with that gun of yours in a panic,” he said to Mary Beth. “You’ll be in danger. These boys, they ain’t no turtles in the marsh.”

“Oh please. I didn’t shoot you,” she said. “I listened to you. Granted it took me a moment. But I can listen.”

Arthur shook his head. He didn’t mean to, but all this made her feel small. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Please, Arthur. I can’t sit back at Shady Belle, just waiting on you. I can’t. Don’t make me.”

There was a commotion then, as two people walked into the saloon, coming through the doors with gusto. At first, Arthur didn’t know what was going on, but then he recognized their faces right quick. “What the hell?”

“Dutch and Sadie?” said Mary Beth standing up to see. “What are they doing here?”

“Only the lord knows,” said Arthur, getting up to tip his hat and address them. “To what do we owe this fine pleasure?”

“Sit down, Arthur,” said Dutch, pushing in next to Charles. He was looking serious. “We need to talk.”

Arthur glanced at Mary Beth. She was apprehensive. A hush came on down between them all like a big old curtain. Then Arthur looked at Charles who had stuffed a fat wad of dipping tobacco into his lower lip, and he was spitting said dip into a wine glass, and he shrugged.

“What’s going on?” said Arthur. He pulled up a chair. Sadie gave him a polite but serious nod and sat down in the booth next to Mary Beth. She was wearing a tough yellow blouse that made her look like a cowgirl.

“Sadie here tells me that Diana showed up at camp this afternoon without her rider,” said Dutch, real quiet.

“That’s right,” said Arthur, lighting a cigarette. “Kieran’s missing.”

“How long.”

“He went missing a few days back,” said Arthur. “Day of the storm. We’ve tracked him through here, all the way out to West Elizabeth—near Riggs Station. Mary Beth here got the information. We think it’s probably O’Driscolls.”

“Good work, Miss Gaskill,” said Dutch, nodding. This made her feel tremendous pride. “And, Arthur, it _is_ O’Driscolls, but it ain’t _just_ O’Driscolls, boy, and that is the reason we are here.”

Arthur smoked. “I don’t catch your meaning.”

“It’s Colm.”

Everybody straightened up. Dutch had his whole, massive hands splayed out on the surface of the table in front of him. The room became heavy and distant all around them. Dutch had a way of doing this, making any and every space into his own.

“Colm himself?” said Arthur, shifting in his seat. “How do you figure that?”

“Because,” said Dutch, staring down at those hands. “The last time a horse showed up to my camp without its rider, it was in Denver, Colorado, and it was Annabelle’s.” Then he looked up at Mary Beth, looking sad in the low light from the saloon. It was a strange sight to see. “A pretty little spotted Apaloosa, just like yours, Miss Gaskill.”

“Annabelle?” said Mary Beth.

“That’s right.”

“You think this is a trap, Dutch?” said Arthur, tense. “You think it’s Colm, trying to lure you in again?”

Dutch puffed up. “I don’t know. But this certainly ain’t no coincidence. We ride. Tonight.”

Arthur became tense. “I ain’t riding the women into no trap, Dutch.”

“Calm down, Arthur,” said Dutch. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with just yet. For now, we’ll get as far as the Heartlands and make camp. Tomorrow morning, we head into West Elizabeth and…see what we can see. Sadie and Mary Beth can be of use to us. They can get information where we cannot. Comprende?” He looked around to wide gestures of agreement.

Arthur hesitated, but he eventually played along, sighing, finishing his cigarette and tossing it to the floor where it burned out into black.

 

Riding out, for a long time, it was silence. The sun started to melt off over the horizon at some point, and the air got crisper, and there were coyotes, it seemed, everywhere, and wild horses hustling out to the coast. Around the time they they were passing through Scarlet Meadows, Mary Beth rode up beside Arthur and asked him to hang back. Arthur obliged. They slowed considerably, making sure they could still see the rest of the group up ahead, but far enough behind to stay out of earshot.

“Arthur,” she said after a little while. The air was purple. It was getting past dusk now as they crested into the Heartlands. Soon, they’d need to make camp.

Arthur wouldn’t meet her eyes. “What is it, Mary Beth.”

“I know you don’t want me here.”

This broke him. He shook his head. He felt bad. “That ain’t it, Mary Beth. Of course I want you here. I always want you here.”

“Okay,” she said, looking around with her hood up. She looked sweet and kind. She looked like his girl. “Then I know you’re freaking out.”

“Excuse me?”

“We don’t even know what we’re up against yet,” she said. “Just give me a chance. You were willing to do that a few weeks ago, when we left for our hunting trip. What’s changed?”

“You know what’s changed,” he said, looking at her, lowering his voice. “I took a leap. I landed on my feet, somehow, and now I’m looking around, and I see us going backwards.”

“Arthur—”

He took a deep breath, looking down at his hands on the reins. “We ain’t been thinking.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, we got real deep, real fast, before we paved our exit. Putting you in danger, with so much goddam uncertainty? It’s making me crazy, Mary Beth. And Dutch, well.” Arthur laughed, cynically, under his breath. “Well he’s making me crazy, too. First that god forsaken party, Angelo Bronte, and now all this nonsense about Colm O’Driscoll. He ain’t even explained what the hell he’s going on about yet. Just expects we ride along with him, and look at us, doing exactly as we’re told. I’m a goddam fool.”

“You’re talking in code, Arthur,” said Mary Beth, pulling Watson up a little closer. “What the hell are you saying?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I just—”

“You said you talked to John,” she said. “Last night, before we went to sleep. Has he made up his mind?”

“Yes.” Arthur nodded. “They’re in. He’s just waiting on me.”

“Good,” she said. “He should be. You know what to do, Arthur. You need to stop second-guessing yourself. And try to just…breathe. I wanna get outta here, too. You know I do. But we gotta get Kieran back. He’s put in his time, and his heart. He’s one of us, and we owe him this. And you gotta deal with Dutch, Arthur. We can’t—there’s too much at stake.”

“I know,” he said. He closed his eyes, thinking. “I just—I know I’m talking nonsense, Mary Beth, but the more time we spend, heming and hawing in the swamps, the more foreboding the feeling in my gut. Like, the longer we wait around, the closer we get to the end. I can feel it. And riding out with you tonight, it’s bringing all that to the surface.”

“The end of what?” she said, watching him in the coming darkness. “What are we getting to the end of, Arthur?”

Arthur sighed. He shook his head again and again, staring off into the darkening path ahead where Dutch rode his pretty white horse at the helm. “Everything,” he said, real low and mean. He looked at her. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember what it felt like to be free. “Come on,” he said, opening his eyes again, picking up the pace a little. “We can talk more later. I’m good with you being here, I just—I need you to listen me, okay?” he said, switching gears, looking at her. “Whatever happens, Mary Beth, when we get wherever it is we’re headed, I need you to listen to me and listen to what I say to you.”

“Okay,” she said, earnest.

“I’m serious,” he said. “And I ain’t saying this because you’re a woman, and not because I love you and I’m terrified that something might happen to you. Or, maybe that second one, just a little, but mostly I’m saying this because you ain’t never been out on a job like this before. Because you’re a rookie, and I’m your lieutenant, and I need you to do what I say when I say it, or else we ain’t standing a chance. You understand?”

“Yes,” she said, becoming eager. “I understand.”

“Good,” he said, and he gave her a strong nod, and then he led the way out ahead so they could catch up with the rest of the gang.

She felt validated by his pep talk. He didn’t altogether know how much she aimed to be strong.

 

They rode till they found a good valley to camp in south of the Heartlands, not far from the lake. The scenery, even in darkness, reminded Mary Beth of Clemens Point. She became full to the brim with sadness and nostalgia. She almost started crying. The romance of it all, its highness and mighty feelings, had started wearing off, and now it was just her and Arthur, and she looked at him, stoking their fire, and she felt such love in her heart so as to help her do anything. Such fortitude. But everything seemed much easier when they were up at Deer Cottage, all alone in what had felt like a primitive world.

At some point, Dutch, Arthur, and Charles grouped up beneath a nearby tree smoking and discussing their manly options for the next day. Sadie and Mary Beth were aced out of this conversation, left to their own devices at the fire where Sadie was cleaning her sawed-off, and Mary Beth was making them a batch of whiskey tea.

"What do you think they’re talking about?" said Sadie.

"Who knows," said Marybeth.

"Fucking egos," said Sadie, looking crass. "The only reason Dutch brought me along was because I made a goddamn stink in front of everyone. For such a drama queen, he sure don’t like it when others cause a fuss."

Mary Beth laughed. "I know what you mean," she said. "You want some tea?"

"Sure," said Sadie.

Together they sat, by the fire, sipping their tea and looking at their boots. Sadie drew real quiet. She held her cup with two hands, looking down into it like it was no tomorrow. She took it down in three gulps. Mary Beth offered her some more. Sadie nodded and held out her cup.

“I hate this damn Heartlands country,” said Sadie. "It smells like fish and buffalo shit. Where are you from Mary Beth?

"Kansas," send Mary Beth. 

"Do you miss it?" 

"Not really."

"Why not?"

Mary Beth took a long drink of her whiskey tea. It was strong and dark and tasted good. "Too many reminders," she said.

Sadie laughed to herself, sounding resigned. “I hear that."

Mary Beth looked up at the wide open sky. The clouds had exited. The stars we’re bright and swimming like fishes. “Why did you want to come anyway?” she said.

Sadie swallowed down that second cup of whiskey tea. She set down the cup and went back to cleaning her gun, polishing it with a dirty linen rag. At first, she didn’t say anything. She just sat there, sullen with her eyes downturned. But sooner or later she spoke.

“I ain’t ever known a man as good as my Jakey,” she said, subdued. “Colm O’Driscoll took him away from me. I want my revenge.”

She said this with such clarity of mind. Such purity of darkness inside her. Mary Beth could feel the whole world narrowing around them, becoming a tornado, crushing into the walls ahead. She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t even begin to understand what you been through.”

Sadie looked up, surprised. She ceased cleaning that gun. “Sure you can,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You been in love,” said Sadie. “If somebody shot Arthur dead and left his body for wild animals to come and scavenge in the middle of a fuckin snowstorm, wouldn’t you do anything to watch them burn?”

Mary Beth got quiet after this. She was listening to the crickets. She looked down at her freckled hands, and then she closed her eyes.

Sadie swore under her breath. She seemed filled with remorse by what she'd said. She realized it was unforgivable. She set down her gun and leaned forward with her elbows resting on her knees. She dropped her chin to her chest. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Mary Beth,” she said. She placed her hand on Mary Beth’s hand, just for a second. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just get so…mean sometimes. Without him.” She kind of sniffled, looked away like she was crying. “So angry. It makes me say and do terrible things.”

“It’s okay,” said Mary Beth. “You don't have to explain.”

“It ain’t okay,” said Sadie, wiping her tears on the back of her hand. “After Jake, up in Colter, you was nicer to me than anyone. You and Arthur, I mean. And here I am, scaring you and making you feel bad.”

“You ain’t. I promise.”

Then she pulled herself together and looked back at Mary Beth with a whole lot of resolve in her face. “Arthur is strong,” she said. “He’s a survivor. He knows what he’s doing, and he loves you. That much is clear. You got nothing to worry about.”

Mary Beth nodded. She took another long drink of her tea. It was starting to cool.

Together, they watched the boys talking under that tree.

“Is he your first love?” said Sadie, getting dreamy.

Mary Beth smiled. “Mostly,” she said. “I mean, I had puppy love once. With a boy back in Kansas City, but it wasn't nothing like being with Arthur,” she said. She didn’t know how old Sadie was, but she figured she was at least enough older to be able to understand what it was she was saying. “He gets real protective sometimes, you know? But I don’t want him to think I’m weak.”

“He don’t think you’re weak,” said Sadie.

“How do you know?”

“Because he knows you, and you ain’t.”

Mary Beth watched Arthur, smoking, listening to Dutch, flexing his jaw like he was thinking real hard. She nodded, following Sadie’s gist. She was pretty sure she understood.

 

That night, in their tent in the Heartlands, Arthur and Mary Beth lie side by side with a little lantern lit up by their faces. Mary Beth was reading her Yates while Arthur was drawing something in his journal and chewing on a toothpick. Outside of their tent, it was a quiet world. All was calm except for Charles out by the fire, sharpening his knife.

“What are you drawing?” said Mary Beth after a little while, turning her head to look at Arthur.

He took a deep breath, studied his work. “You,” he said.

It was a surprise. Mary Beth felt herself kind of pluck up and blush furiously. She straightened and closed her book and asked if she could see.

“Sure,” he said.

He showed her.

It was two pictures. One of her eating a peach, wearing a dress, sitting on a blanket by the river. The other one was her with that shotgun, shooting a turtle. She laughed. “Arthur!” she said, wacking him on the shoulder. “Not the turtle again.”

He laughed, too. “What’s wrong with the turtle?” he said. “I like that turtle. I like that day. I don’t wanna forget.”

“Me neither,” she said, gazing up at him. She felt that whole host of romantic dreams returning to her. Then she kissed him, getting breathless. 


	25. Annabelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _cw: implied PTSD_

Early that next morning, Arthur went out into the early dawn to hunt a couple rabbits for their breakfast. Charles had been rustling around in his tent, but Arthur tugged on the flap and told him to rest up. “I got this,” he said and went up the hill from the beach to the shallow woods.

When he’d left her, Mary Beth was sleeping peacefully with her braids undone, and her hair all in heavy waves on the rough pillow. One day, he thought, we’ll be out of this mess. One day. But until then he was thankful for her sanity, and her kindness, and her lightness. He knew he had the predisposition to overthinking almost everything. He felt like a thousand layers, all compounded into one another with tragedy and age, and without the possibility of a new life, he might have let them sink him right into the earth. He still got this bad feeling sometimes, like in another life where he did not take her away to the north, where they did not kiss at Hamish Sinclair’s, and where they did not fall in love, he was a dead man. He was slowly rotting away inside that polar bear, and sadness and destruction consumed them all, sending them to the underworld.

The rabbits were easy prey. When he came back down the bluff to the beach where they had made their little circle of tents, Arthur saw Dutch standing out by the water in the early pink of the sunrise. He was untucked and rumpled, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the lake and the little fish that came up to bite at the surface. With the rabbits flung over his shoulder, Arthur went down and stood beside him. Dutch seemed to sense his presence but did not look. He continued to smoke and stare like a lost soul. For one wistful moment, Arthur thought he might have encountered a ghost.

“You okay?” said Arthur. Old habits. He cared about Dutch.

“Good morning, Arthur,” said Dutch, ignoring his question, still not looking. He dropped his cigarette into the sand. “I’ve just come to…see the lake.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

Arthur nodded. “It is,” he said.

Dutch had his hands on his hips. He seemed deep in thought. Arthur waited, switching the game from one shoulder to the other. “What’s up, Dutch?”

“How is Mary Beth doing?” he said eventually. “With all of this.”

“All what?”

“Riding, with us. I don’t fancy her the sort of woman with a thirst for blood. Unlike Sadie, of course. Mary Beth does not carry…anger inside her.”

Arthur watched the circles popping up on the surface of the water, indicating the presence of the fish below. Dutch was right about Mary Beth. She did not carry anger inside her and it was one of the things he reckoned made girls like her so appealing to men like them. “She’s okay,” he said. “Mary Beth, she might seem dainty. I mean, she ain’t no killer, that’s for sure, but she’s brave. She’s real brave. I seen it.”

“I believe you,” said Dutch. He hung his head.

Arthur nodded. He lit a cigarette, gave it to Dutch who nodded in gratitude. He then lit one for himself.

“Annabelle was brave,” Dutch said then. He smoked. He surveyed the water. “A pickpocket from Dallas, literate, and quite the gifted con artist.”

“I remember,” said Arthur. “Pretty, too. Real pretty. She used to make me blush. Granted, I wasn’t more than twenty years old when she came around.”

“Remember that time she and Hosea convinced the owner of the bank in Anaconda that they were a couple of wealthy industrialists from Massachusetts?” said Dutch. “Poor schmuck ended up paying out on an investment that they never actually made.”

They had a laugh. “I do remember, yup. I believe I posed as their driver that day.”

“She played quite the prize bride,” said Dutch, sighing wistfully, smoking, watching the fish. “She was a lot like Mary Beth, don’t you think?”

Arthur took a long drag. He had not thought of it, but it was true. “She actually was,” he said. “I guess you’re right.”

“You must be worried sick, having her here,” said Dutch. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I could’ve been…mindful. You didn’t even want to bring her to that preposterous party, at the fool Mayor’s house. Though she did quite well, might I add. Still, you worry about her, and her safety.”

“Of course I do,” said Arthur. “I always did, even before.”

“But now it’s different,” said Dutch, eye-balling him. He flicked the cigarette into the water, studied his knuckles. “Now that the two of you have…laid claim. You should propose to her, Arthur. Get it all out in the open.”

Arthur straightened up, puffed his chest out a little bit, flicked his cigarette as well. “Well, I have,” he said. “A few nights back.”

“And?”

“And she said yes,” he said, smiling, but world-weary. “We ain’t told nobody yet. Or, you’re the first person I’ve told. We just liked it as a secret…for a little while. But we’ll tell people soon.”

“That’s good,” said Dutch, nodding, taking a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth like he was relieving some sort of tension from within his soul. “That’s real good, son. I’m overjoyed.”

Arthur cleared his throat.

“You know,” said Dutch. He reached into his back pocket, produced a flask. He took a long drink, barely flinched, offered it to Arthur, but Arthur declined. “I would’ve married Annabelle,” he went on. “I had a ring. I had a plan.”

“What happened to her?” said Arthur, suddenly. “I’m sorry. I mean, I know she was got by Colm, but you never told us how. You never said anything Dutch. You just came back with—you just came back and you didn’t speak on it.”

Dutch sighed, profoundly. Arthur was worried he might become upset by the question, but he did not. “The horse was bait, just like I suspect it is this time. Like I suspect it would have been with you several months back, should you not have overcome and escaped Colm's goddam torture chamber. I went alone, to where I knew he’d be. When I got there, she was strung up from a tree, already dead. He was gone. There was nobody there but the goddam ravens. And…her.” He took another drink.

“Jesus,” said Arthur. “Dutch, I—”

“It’s a long time ago, son,” said Dutch. He clapped a hand to Arthur’s shoulder, shook him a little, as if with pure love, or perhaps insanity. It wasn’t always clear with Dutch. He then looked back out at the water as if confused. “A long time.”

Arthur sighed. His chest felt a little heavy. “Even still,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well. You would understand, what it means, to lose.” He closed his eyes, shook out his head a little. “Truth be told, Arthur, I’m a little…tired this morning. I’m sorry if I seem out of my element. Thank you for…hunting breakfast, and for humoring my fond reminiscence of Annabelle. I haven’t talked about her in…a while.”

“You’re welcome,” said Arthur, scratching at his beard. It had begun to grow in once more. “You're always welcome. You can talk to me. I’m a good listener, Dutch, as perhaps once you knew.”

Dutch smiled at this, cynically of course. “You sound like Hosea.”

“Well I take that as a compliment,” said Arthur, staring at the water.

Dutch sighed. “Carry on, Arthur.”

Arthur nodded once. “Understood.”

After breakfast they rode out for another day, stopping from time to time to fish and assess the trail ahead. They stopped at Flatneck Station to inquire further upon their hunt, but the station itself was closed and looked recently abandoned. Arthur found a deck of playing cards outside on one of the benches. That night, they made camp on the Dakota and he and Charles and the girls played several games of Blackjack. Dutch remained sullen for a great deal of the trip. He isolated himself to his tent, or to the water, not reading or writing or doing anything at all but thinking, smoking, occasionally drinking from that flask. He seemed to be meditating on something, and it was a quiet foreboding that Arthur had seen many times before but never perhaps to such a far-reaching degree.

It was clean air out here, the closer they got to the west, the further they got from the south. After Blackjack, which Arthur mostly cleaned up though Charles took a hand or two, Arthur and Mary Beth found themselves out by the rocky bank of the river, passing a flask and eating jerky and looking up at the stars. It was beautiful country out here and full of grace, or that’s what they thought. Arthur put his arm around her and they sat together in some kind of harmony.

“How am I doing?” she said, taking a drink from the flask. It was whiskey, something cheap they’d picked up in Rhodes.

“How you doing with what?”

“I mean so far, on this trip. How am I doing?”

Arthur smiled. “You’re doing fine, Mary Beth,” he said.

“Good.”

“But we ain’t run into no trouble yet,” he went on. “You gonna be okay taking point again, when we get to Riggs?”

“Uh huh.”

“Good. You seem to be better at getting information than any one of us hapless fools. Must be your pretty face and that mild Kansas disposition.” He smirked at her. She passed him the flask and blushed.

“Ain’t nothing mild about Kansas,” said Mary Beth, looking down at her boots. “Except maybe the altitude.”

Arthur laughed. “You’re very funny, Miss Gaskill. You know that?”

“Only because you keep telling me so. And here I had been lead to believe I was maudlin.” She took a bit of her jerky. It was a tough rope of dried venison.

“Maudlin?” said Arthur, doing the same. “Who the hell told you that?”

“Miss Grimshaw.”

“Ha. Well. She’s grown bitter with age. Even ten years ago she was a much…milder woman. If you can believe it.”

“The kind of woman who taught Arthur Morgan to dance?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Exactly.”

They smiled together.

But thinking back to Miss Grimshaw in her younger days made Arthur think of Dutch. He tossed what was left of his jerky into the weeds. Mary Beth seemed to read him exactly and immediately. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Is everything okay?”

Arthur sighed. “I’m not…actually sure,” he said. “I guess I’m trying to predict an unpredictable situation, and it’s confusing me once again.”

“You talk to Dutch?”

“Yes,” he said. “This morning. He seemed…off.”

“It’s weird, right?” she said. “How he showed up in Rhodes like that. He seems real driven. Not sure why.”

“He ain’t in his right mind, Mary Beth,” Arthur said, finally, stripping a weed between his fingers. “I mean, he ain’t gone full nuts or anything, but he’s out of control.”

“How so?”

“It’s vengeance again. It never used to be vengeance with Dutch, not at the core, but something’s changed. This trip for him, it ain’t even about Kieran. I can feel it.”

Mary Beth was quiet then, subdued. She placed her hand on his knee. Though it did not solve anything, it was a comfort. She was a comfort. Brave.

 

The next day, they rode to Riggs Station, all of them in a big clump. Mary Beth went inside by herself to inquire upon her “brother” once again, just like in Rhodes, while the rest stayed hidden at a safe distance. Arthur watched through binoculars to make sure nothing funny happened. Mary Beth truly was a remarkable device—she was so young looking, so innocent. It was near impossible to argue with or to distrust. Arthur, against his better judgment, began to wonder why they had not facilitated this particular area of her expertise before. He sighed.

She came back in about fifteen minutes, riding her filly. She idled beside Arthur, reported to Dutch. “The clerk said he’s seen four or five rough looking fellas riding in and out of this particular area several times over the past week,” she said She took her hood down. The sun had burnt off all the humidity from the rain, and the air was dry. “He said one of them might’ve been Kieran. He told me I could check a nearby stead if I were feeling brave, called it Lone Mule Stead. He said sometimes gangs of outlaws come through and hole up there, but he told me not to go by myself, to hire a gun. He said if he thinks Kieran’s been messed up with something bad, that might be where he’s hiding.”

“Lone Mule?” said Arthur, straightening up on his pretty horse. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“I don’t know,” said Mary Beth. “But he drew up a map for me. It ain’t far. Between here and Blackwater. See?”

She showed it to Arthur. He studied it, chewing on a piece of bark. “I can’t make heads nor tails of what I’m feeling,” he said. “I just…this is familiar.”

“What do you think?” said Dutch, leaning in. It was the first time he’d effectively spoken to anyone in about a day.

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes, Arthur,” said Dutch, running a hand throug his hair. He was still unkempt, just like he’d been the previous day, which was unusual for Dutch. “I’m asking you. What do you _think_.”

“I think…” Arther took a deep breath. “I think me and Charles ought to go in on recon, tonight, after dark. Just observe the situation. We’ll report back once we know what’s what, and then we can decide what to do. I mean, if Kieran ain’t even here, nor Colm, ain’t no reason to go in guns blazing.”

Dutch nodded, serious. “I agree,” he said. “It’s a plan.”

“Is that safe?” said Mary Beth, very concerned all of sudden. “What if they catch you?”

“They won’t,” said Charles.

Sadie reached over to squeeze Mary Beth’s hand. “The boys got this,” she said. “Don’t you worry.”

She looked at Arthur, who nodded in affirmation. “We’ll be careful,” he said to her. “I promise.”

That night, they rode out to Flat Iron Lake and made camp, a few miles south of Bard’s Crossing. The trains were loud, rumbling past every few hours, shaking the trees and the ground under their feet. Arthur and Charles rode out late, past eleven. It wasn’t more than ten miles to the place marked on Mary Beth’s map, and they arrived in under an hour. For the whole ride, Arthur had felt uneasy. He must have been showing it in his face, too, because Charles took notice and asked him what was going on.

“I don’t know,” said Arthur, adjusting his hat. “I just—I get a bad feeling around these parts, Charles. Like I been here before.”

“Have you?”

Arthur shrugged. He was at a loss for now. “I just don’t know.”

They tied up their horses in the trees. The moon was so big and bright, it looked like it had a face. Lone Mule Stead was just a shit cabin, it turned out, with an outhouse and a couple of supporting structures for horses and chickens on the otherwise washed out property. When they arrived, they stayed well-hidden behind a large rock outcropping, taking inventory of the scene via binoculars. There were guards, holding torches, but they were not patrolling the perimeter and seemed mostly unconcerned with the safety of the roost. There were lights on inside the cabin and two big cellar doors not far from the stead. Arthur knew it was O’Driscolls based on their nonchalance, dress, and demeanor, and he was further filled with dread upon observing the location and the casual nature of the guards.

It took him about five minutes, but sooner or later, he figured it out.

“What’s wrong, Arthur?” said Charles. He was eating sunflower seeds out of a little canvas baggie. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Arthur put down his binoculars. He sat back on his heels and closed his eyes to his reality. He felt a stabbing uneasiness in his gut. He knew exactly where they were. “This is where they kept me,” he said to Charles, wiping the sweat off his upper lip. He looked through the binoculars again, becoming sure, nodding to himself in a validating fashion. “This is it.”

“Where Colm kept you?” said Charles, tossing the baggie, suddenly becoming concerned. He looked through his binoculars one more time, then he looked back at Arthur and placed his hand on Arthur’s back. “Where he tortured you.”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Son of a bitch.”

Charles was filled with indignation then. He became irritable. “You stay here,” he said. “I’m gonna take a closer look.”

“I ain’t letting you go alone,” said Arthur.

“Yes, you are,” said Charles. “Arthur, you experienced a major trauma here. Coming back, without preparation—it could have repercussions that you can’t predict.”

“Like what?” said Arthur.

“Like you could lose your bearings, or worse. We can’t risk you becoming disoriented. There’s too much to lose. Let me do this. I’ll be okay.”

Arthur was sweating, on the back of his neck. And yet he felt very cold. He looked at Charles, who was serious, and he sighed, resigned, because he trusted. He lowered his binoculars, squeezed the bridge of his nose and nodded in a weary fashion. “Okay,” he said. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” said Charles. “Don’t worry about me.”

Then Charles was off, and while he was, Arthur sat with his back against the cold outcropping of rock and felt the quiet sensations of his regular anxiety. But now they were getting louder. It was like a twisting in his gut, gnawing up from his subconscious so that he had to double over and breathe, only so much breathing made him feel as if he might pass out. He looked up at the stars, blinked, tried to let himself get swallowed by the quietude of nature, the omniscience of the moon, and he listened to the coyotes, out there, somewhere, listening to anything but the sounds in his memory, which were mostly his own—the bad, guttural sounds that he made as he took out that bullet and cauterized the wound with an open flame. He grabbed his scarred shoulder, on an instinct, but then he shook out his hand and flinched like this was giving in or something. He eventually closed his eyes and pictured the very first face he saw when he somehow made it back to camp alive. Mary Beth.

“You okay, man?” said Charles—he was back now, all of a sudden. “Arthur? You okay?”

Arthur was there, surfacing. He blinked. He had no idea how much time had passed. “I’m fine,” he said, nodding, patting Charles’s hand with his own. “Thank you. What did you see?”

Charles left his hand there, heavy on Arthur’s shoulder, a comforting gesture, for a moment more. He looked around. He looked serious. “They have Kieran,” he said.

“You sure?”

“Yes. I saw his hat, and I heard…I heard his voice. He was begging for food. He’s down in that cellar there.”

Arthur nodded. “Anything else?”

Charles took a deep breath, renewed his grip on Arthur’s shoulder, then removed his hand. He holstered his sawed-off and spat into the weeds. “Dutch was right,” said Charles. “It is Colm. He’s here.”

“Did you actually see him?”

Charles nodded. “Yes. There are about twelve them in all, plus Colm. Nothing we can’t handle. But it’ll be bloody.”

Finally in possession of his faculties, Arthur cleared his throat. He turned around, looked through the binoculars once more. He was assessing the geography of the setting, the layout. “How do you reckon we approach this?”

“I think we should get Dutch and Sadie and hit them tonight, while they’re off their guard.”

“Dutch may not take kindly to stealth, Charles,” said Arthur, stowing his binoculars. He lit a cigarette for his nerves. “You know how he gets lately. He’ll wanna make a fuss.”

“Then we go in guns blazing,” said Charles, shrugging. “Either way, they won’t see it coming. But if we wait another day, we risk one of them seeing one of us, or riding over to the station, hearing from the clerk somebody was snooping their way. Or we risk Kieran. We’re outnumbered, Arthur. We need the element of surprise.”

Arthur sighed, heavy. “You’re right,” he said, and he glanced around, feeling the smoke in his lungs like a respite _._ “Let’s go.”

 

“ _Tonight_?” said Mary Beth when they returned. She felt blindsided, unprepared. They were all on the beach now, assembled around the fire, and everywhere there were the sounds of weapons and bullets, the sounds of preparation. Dutch was just sitting on a piece of driftwood, his head hanging, cracking his knuckles again and again like he was a bull set to charge.

This was a dark time, she thought, and she’d witnessed times like it before. She remembered back to those chaotic days when they were first running from the botched job in Blackwater. It was so scary. They’d been in binds, but never like this. The men barely spoke to one another and it was all grunting and angry yelling in the nights, and John was shot up and Abigail was crying, and a lot of other good people had gone missing or were killed. Arthur was at Dutch’s throat, time and again, and Micah was always nearby, making his inhuman sounds of exasperation as Hosea shook his head and tried to remind them all that arguing wasn’t gonna make no difference in whether they lived or died. Those times were uncertain. Those times were full of pain and fear, especially as a woman when you had so little control over what happened to you, and what happened to those around you. You could do nothing but live by the actions of the men and hold onto your faith that they knew what they were doing, that they were professionals, they were gunslingers of the highest order and getting out of an impossible pickle with the law was their absolute specialty.

But it was different now. Before, they would all go away—the boys—all of them, and then they would come back, for better or for worse, and in that time she would worry for them each in their own specific ways. It was true she had always had special feelings for Arthur that she chalked up to romantic bullshit and him being so handsome and full of mystery like the cowboys from the storybooks she had read in her girlhood. He was tall and quiet and enigmatic, and unlike these other unwashed specimens, he cherished books and ideas and these were parts of himself he only ever seemed to show to her. He had always been special. But now, he wasn’t just special. He had given himself to her, and she kept thinking back to that time he went out, scoping the perimeter at Deer Cottage, and she was so afraid for his safety, she nearly cried. Now, she was his, and he was hers, and they were lovers, and he was going into a gunfight, and the idea of him not coming back—it made her crazy.

“If we wait,” said Arthur, addressing her calmly now, “we risk showing our hand, Mary Beth. This way, with four on twelve, we stand a chance.”

"You mean five,” said Mary Beth. “Five on twelve.”

Arthur shook his head. “You ain't coming,” he said. He had been sitting on an old tree stump, loading his shotgun, but now he was with her, approaching her, holding out his hands as if she were some wild animal with which he did not cherish to reckon. “Mary Beth, you stay here.”

“Like hell,” she said, getting defensive. “I ain’t letting you go without me.”

“This ain’t no negotiation,” he said. “You ain’t a trained gun. We talked about this.”

“No we didn’t.” She became frantic. She was looking around but nobody was coming to her defense. “Arthur,” she said.

He just shook his head. “No.”

She stormed off, to the edge of the moonlit lake. She stood there with her boots getting wet in the water. She was trying so hard not to cry, but she was flooded. She didn’t want to go. She was afraid. But she didn’t want him going either.

He followed her out there. He had removed his hat. He was holding it with two hands in front of him. “Mary Beth,” he said. He reached for her. She pushed him away. “Mary Beth. Please.”

“What if you die?” she said, wiping the tears away. She hated it. She hated him to see her cry.

“Mary Beth, I ain’t gonna die.”

“You said you wasn’t ever gonna leave me.”

“You wanted this,” pleaded Arthur. “I’m out here, risking my life for Kieran, because you asked me to, Mary Beth. I would have left him to die, but you convinced me that was wrong. Now, I gotta see it through. I gotta.”

She looked away. She knew he was right.

He sighed, very concerned. He stood before her, like an offering. He put his hat back on and took both of her hands into his with caution. She allowed him to do this but she would not look him in the eye. He took a step closer, lowered his voice. “Mary Beth,” he said.

“What.”

“Baby, please,” he said. It was the first time he’d ever called her that. He picked up her face in his hands, tried getting ahold of her eyes. “Baby, look at me.”

“What, Arthur.”

“Look at me.”

So she did, but only just. He exhaled, anted up for her. He put the loose hair behind her ears. “I ain’t trying to patronize you,” he said. “By not letting you come. I ain’t. I know you got the chops for a lot of bad stuff but—Mary Beth, look at me.”

“No,” she said.

“Why?”

“I can’t let you go without me,” she said. “We gotta stick together.”

“I agree. We gotta stick together. But I can’t get Kieran back and protect you at the same time. I know you’re an outlaw, Mary Beth, and a damn good one at that. You’ve proven that again and again. But you ain’t no killer. You don’t want this. And I just—I don’t wanna lose you. So I need you to stay behind. Do you understand? Will you listen me, please?”

She bit down, very tired and very scared. She nodded though, resigned to him. It was the right thing to do, even if felt wrong. “Okay,” she said, sniffling a little. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice breaking. He hugged her big, cradled her head in his hands and kissed her hair. “I love you much.”

“I love you, too,” she said, still crying. “Please be careful, Arthur. Please come back.”

“I will,” he said, still holding her tightly. “I ain’t never gonna leave you, remember?” He kissed her.

Charles looked around and eventually suggested that Mary Beth wait in a little cave that cut into the cliffs, not far from their camp. It was uninhabited and very damp and the entrance was mostly hidden from direct view on the beach. It had a skylight overhead to let in the light from the moon and smelled of freshwater kelp. Arthur assured her that they should not be gone but a few hours before he kissed her again and left her view. She brought a lantern and her book and tried to breathe.

After all the men were gone, Sadie hung back in the cave. She was armed up and ferocious and full of intent, but she seemed ambivalent. “You gonna be okay?” she said to Mary Beth.

Mary Beth tried to smile. “I hope so. Are you?”

Sadie shrugged. She lit a cigarette, gave it to Mary Beth, then she lit one for herself. “I ain’t letting nothing happen to Arthur,” said Sadie, reading her mind. “That’s for sure. I don’t care much what happens to me, but him—he’s gonna live. You can count on it.”

Mary Beth did not know what to say. She didn’t feel much like smoking. She let the cigarette burn down. She felt full up, full of fear and full of gratitude. “Thank you,” she said.

Sadie affixed her hat to her head with nonchalance. “Don’t mention it,” she said, then she was off.

Once she was gone, and the night was big and cold and empty overhead, Mary Beth allowed herself to cry for just a minute. As she cried, she thought only unintelligible thoughts that were filled with a kind of self-pity and a desperate fear of which she felt ashamed. Then, when she was finished, she stopped. As quickly as she had begun. She pulled herself together, and she straightened up with her back against the wall, and she picked up her shotgun off the slippery cave floor. She cocked it once, closed her eyes, took a big, deep breath, and she waited.

Meanwhile, far away from her and her control, the boys and Sadie—they went into the fight.

 

A couple of hours went by. The moon had moved out of her view, and the cave was darker than it was before. Mary Beth sat with her head hanging, her shotgun in hand. She was very weary, very tired. She had not once opened her book. She sat in meditation with the sky and the wind and felt herself vibrating for many minutes at a time. It was gruelling. She could hear nothing of the world outside, nothing but crickets and the sounds of the lake echoing through the cave. At some point, many hours had passed and she felt as though the earth had rotated fully on its axis. Her muscles hurt. She realized she had been sitting very still in the exact same position for a very long time, so she tried to relax her fingers, her hands curled around the gun so tight. She tried to breath. Breathe.

Then, she heard a stirring up ahead, at the mouth of the cave. The sound was so foreign and so unexpected that she sat straight up with her back to the wall and held her gun high against her chest with two fingers on the trigger for a long time. She waited. After a minute, the stirring seemed to have discontinued, but then it started up again, and it sounded like footsteps, and Mary Beth became alarmed. On a reflex, she called out for him.

“Arthur?” she said. Her voice sounded like a little girl’s. She staggered to her feet, still with the gun. She had the lantern, too, and she held it out in front of her so as to commence lighting the cave. She took a step forward. She leaned. She listened. She couldn’t see or hear anything, but pretty soon she came to regret having said his name. For a figure stepped out of the darkness and into the light of her lantern, and it was tall and big, but it was not Arthur. It wasn’t Dutch nor Charles neither and it was a man she had never seen before. He was bleeding from the upper leg and walking with a considerable limp. He was also holding his arm against his body as if it were broken. He looked confused at first, to find her here. Clearly he had been looking for a place to hide. His hair was long and mussed and he had no hat. Once he saw her face though, something clicked, as if he recognized her, and in this he seemed to take a great deal of instant pleasure. He came closer. She took a step back.

“Who the fuck are you?” she said from behind her lantern.

He was smiling, mean. “Who am I?” he said, in kind of a sing-song voice. It was unpleasant. “Who are you? Are you who I think you are?”

“Back the fuck up,” said Mary Beth. “I mean it.”

He held up his hands, as if caught in the act, still smiling. “You won’t hurt me,” he said. “Miss Gaskill, is it?”

“Excuse me?” said Mary Beth.

The man laughed to himself, real low all of a sudden. The cave smelled of his blood. Time stopped. “You’re Arthur Morgan’s girl,” he said. “I’m right, ain’t I?”

“No,” she said.

But he disregarded her protest. “What a fuckin surprise. I never dreamed you’d come.”

“What the fuck do you want,” she said again. She dropped the lantern. It rolled toward him. She nearly lost sight of his face but pointed the gun anyhow.

He took another step forward, just one, still with his hands up in the air. He no longer seemed affected by the gunshot in his leg. Inhuman-like. He laughed and it was an ugly sound. “What do I want?”

"Yes.”

“Well I wanted a place to hide. But now, I ain’t so sure.”

Mary Beth said nothing. “You better get. He’ll be here soon.”

“Who, Arthur?” He lowered his hands, finally, cracked his knuckles, studying her. “Yeah, that’s who you’re waiting for, isn’t it? I don’t know whether he lives or dies tonight, though he did get away from me and mine, all them months ago. I…had him. I _had_ him. You’ll make a fine consolation prize though, I expect. Might even draw him right to me, albeit too late. He is a chivalrous buffoon, I’ll grant him that. Loyal to his grave. And you wouldn’t be the first van der Linde girl whose lights I put to rest, luring in a rat.”

Mary Beth took another step backward. Her back touched the wall and there was nowhere left to go. “Colm,” she said, wise to him, swallowing her fear, raising that gun.

“That’s right,” said Colm O’Driscoll, smiling like no sort of evil she’d ever seen. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mary Beth.”


	26. Goslings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _cw: strong violence (canon typical), vague references to sexual violence_

When Mary Beth was a little girl, her father once shot and killed a pair of thieves—a couple of good-for-nothing petty outlaws who had been rustling around their property, picking off their goats for months. Whenever they came around, he would take her big brother out and arm him with a shotgun. Before they left, he would say, “Mary Beth, you stay inside with your mama,” and so she would stay inside with her mama, and together, they would make clay figurines like dogs and trains and things and cook them in the kiln, or else they would bake a pie or knit or sit by the window and read aloud the gothic tales of Edgar Allan Poe. Mary Beth so loved  _The Raven_. Meanwhile, her mother would keep a loaded shotgun by the door but she did not act as if anything were terrible or amiss.

The night those thieves finally got their comeuppance, Mary Beth had been looking out the window, braiding her long hair. She was just minding her own business when, in the light from the big moon, she saw one of them—a strange-looking man, come running out of the woods and toward the house with his gun drawn and this look on his face like he was an animal. It was wrong. That was all she remembered thinking. It was wrong, and it happened in a kind of slow motion, as her mother was in the kitchen making tea, and the kettle was screaming, and so she had no idea. Mary Beth was alone. She froze in childish fear as she watched the man coming. She stood alone in the window, unable to yell or do anything at all but wait helplessly, as if she were in a dream. He made it all the way to the foot of the porch before her daddy put him down with his rifle from the tree line. Mary Beth closed her eyes and covered her ears. Her mother came running when she heard the sound of the gun but to her it was none the difference.

Mary Beth still wonders sometimes what would have happened if the bad man had gotten into the house. Would her mother have known what to do? Would her father or brother have gotten there in time? Whenever bad things happened to the gang, Mary Beth was typically hidden away with Abigail and Tilly and Jack and Miss Grimshaw and Karen—Jenny, too before she got shot. She longed for adventure but never had the chops or the know-how to exact her longing upon the world until she went hunting with Arthur. She did not want to kill anybody. She was not a killer, and she knew it. He was right about that, but the world was still all full of bad men. Bad men running toward her door with their big guns and their animal teeth.

 

“You ain’t gonna do nothing to me, Colm O'Driscoll,” said Mary Beth, her gun pointed. Colm was about fifteen feet away, and she was pretty sure she could make the shot. Even if he didn’t die, he’d be fucked up half to death with buckshot, and that was good enough. But her hands were shaking. She was standing at the window trying not to freeze.

Colm still had his hands up, in surrender. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because,” she said, renewing her grip on the gun. “Dutch might secretly relish the drama of a blood feud, but Arthur has no such vanity inside him. If you kill me, he will end you, even if he kills himself in the process, and you know that ain’t gonna be pretty.”

Colm took a step forward, considering. Mary Beth had nowhere to go, but she knew she had a point. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Back up.”

“Maybe I ought to just haul you off like I did with Annabelle.”

“Don’t say her name.”

“But unlike her, I could keep you alive,” he went on, “as bait. I bet I could get Arthur Morgan to do all sorts of mean things to get you back. Though my boys is mighty starved for affection, don’t you forget, and that might be worse for you in the end.”

“Fuck you.”

He laughed. “A fighter? Just like she was. You know, she caught me good, right before I strung her up. Right here, with the blade of a beautiful hunting knife.” He leaned into the light then, showing Mary Beth a fine scar across his right cheekbone. “Those van der Linde boys, they do got feisty taste in women, I’ll give them that.”

“At least they get women.”

“Their primitive weakness.”

“Seems they’re doing just fine.”

He smiled.

Then, there was a sound, coming from the front of the cave. Mary Beth moved fast when Colm turned to see. She wound up and swung that gun like a baseball bat, lit him clean over the head as hard as she could. He stumbled, swore, but when she tried to get past him, he grabbed her by the skirts and yanked her backward, tossing her into the cave walls like a sack of potatoes. It was nothing for him. She hit hard but caught her balance, and she was able to bring up the gun in an effort to shoot, but it was too late.

Somebody else was in the cave.

Mary Beth got distracted. It was footsteps, and in this time, Colm lurched forward and wrestled the gun away from her. She screamed. Then there was a low voice.

“Colm,” it said.

They both turned to see this time, but it was dark, and in the space of a second, a single gunshot rang out from where they were looking, and Colm went down without warning. He cried out. At first Mary Beth thought he had was dead meat, but it turned out he had only been caught in the precise back of the knee. He was writhing. And the gun had gone down with him, making a great big clang, and he did try swiping at her feet, unable to stand, but she stole the gun and backed away from him, unsure of where to point it next but emboldened nonetheless. “Don’t move,” she said.

“It’s okay, Miss Gaskill,” said Dutch. He walked out of the darkness, smoke alighting the barrel of his revolver. He holstered it up, stepped over Colm and his squirming disposition. He was removing his gloves, one finger at a time, looking like a surgeon as he gazed at her through the dim light of the cave. “You can put the gun down, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

She nearly collapsed into the earth, the relief so sudden. She dropped the gun to her side and steadied herself against the cave wall. It was cold and damp and the blood was pounding in her skull like a fuckin freight train. “Sweet Jesus,” she said.

“Motherfucker,” Colm groaned.

“That’s right,” said Dutch. He followed up then with one long stride, a quick swing of his boot, striking hard across the meat of Colm’s jaw. Mary Beth could have sworn that man picked straight up off the ground, flipped inside out and then landed hard on his back, wheezing and coughing, rolling onto his side, spitting blood into the dirt. Dutch tucked his gloves into his back pocket. “It’s me. The motherfucker.”

Mary Beth waited, pressed to the wall. She looked at Colm, and then she looked at Dutch, and she did not move. Dutch had entered a sort of trance, she thought. He circled Colm, as a predator. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and he wiped the sweat from his brow, and then he put the handkerchief back in his pocket again.

“Did he touch you, Miss Gaskill?” he said then. She noticed he looked very tired and dirty. He had blood on his vest and his sleeves—from the fight at Lone Mule, she expected. She looked away, too scared to ask. She didn’t wanna know. Not yet.

“No,” she said. “I mean, he roughed me up a little but nothing like you mean.”

Dutch nodded, cracking his knuckles. “Did he threaten to touch you, Miss Gaskill?  _Like I mean_?”

She blinked, catching his drift. She held the gun close to her chest and nodded. “Yes.”

This seemed to enrage him. He kicked Colm again, in the gut this time. Colm yelped and rolled over but then much to her surprise, he began to laugh, maniacally, as if he had just realized what the hell was going on.

“If it ain’t ol daddy Dutch,” he said, coughing, “as I live and breathe.”

“Living and breathing ain’t in the cards for you too much longer, Colm,” said Dutch.

“I was just admiring—” his breath rattled, like maybe he’d punctured a lung. “Just admiring Miss Gaskill here. A pretty piece, even for you boys. I’m surprised you don’t take them spoils for yourself.”

“Shut up,” said Mary Beth.

Colm laughed.

“You’re like an animal,” she said.

“Don’t waste your breath, Miss Gaskill,” said Dutch, studying. “It ain’t worth it.”

Then, something changed. Without further delay, Dutch got down and straddled Colm and started beating the shit out of his face. It was alarming, like something had snapped inside him.

“This is for Arthur,” he said, hitting him again, and again. Dutch was a big man, very tall, and he was stronger than he appeared. “You tried. To take him. From me.” He then took to strangling Colm with two hands, a veritable death grip. Colm tried to struggle, but it was no use. As Dutch put him out of commission, he got real close, almost nose to nose, and he said, “And this is for them.”

Mary Beth could only watch from the corner of the cave. For a moment, she had forgotten where she was and how she had gotten here. The shock of it all and the speed with which so much change had taken place was so extreme. She could hardly remember. It was like waking up from a nightmare. But after a little while, she realized what was going on, and then she realized that Dutch was still over there, still holding down Colm’s wind pipe even as Colm was already dead and had been dead for some minutes.

She became hurried. She left the gun. She went to Dutch, and she got to her knees and tried to ease his hands away from Colm’s throat. “Dutch,” she said, trying to be gentle. He wouldn’t respond. She picked up his face, using all her strength, and she finally got him to look up, to see her eyes. “Dutch,” she pleaded. “Dutch, he’s dead. You can stop now. He’s dead. It’s over.”

“Over?”

She nodded, trying to shake him out of it. “Yes. It’s okay. You can stop.”

He surfaced, blinked a bunch of times. All the air seemed to go out of him, and he sort of lurched forward a little to try and catch his breath. Then he looked down at what he was doing and he immediately sat back with his hands resting on his knees. He looked at Colm O’Driscoll. Dead. He looked at his hands, and then he looked up at Mary Beth.

“Are you all right?” she said.

It took him a moment to register exactly what she had asked of him. But at some point, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not, Miss Gaskill. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Where’s everybody else, Dutch? Are they—”

“They’re okay,” he said. He patted her on the back, seeming to normalize, if only for a second and he got to his feet, slowly, dusting his hands off on his slacks. “Arthur is fine. Don’t worry. They were on their way in to free Kieran when I—I saw Colm trying to sneak away. I tracked him here alone.”

“Thank you,” said Mary Beth, in earnest. She was standing too now, feeling eager. “You saved my life.”

“I would never let anything happen to you, Mary Beth.” He sort of stumbled. She caught him. He leaned into her, seeming dizzy all of a sudden. He was heavy, but she could handle it. “You,” he went on, “or Arthur. You’re my goddam family.”

“I know,” she said, trying to steady him against the wall. “I know, Dutch. I know.”

Just then they heard more footsteps, coming quickly into the cave.

“Mary Beth?”

It was Arthur.

She looked at Dutch, then she picked up her skirts and went running. The cave was filling with light as the sun rose outside. It flooded through the skylight, all pinks and yellows. She went into Arthur's embrace, and he held her tightly.

“You’re okay,” she said.

He smiled into her hair. “Yes, I’m okay.”

“Did you get Kieran?”

“We did. He’s a little messed up, but he’ll be fine.”

She breathed.

“We can’t find Dutch,” he said then, pushing her hood down, the hair off her shoulders, “or Colm. I’m worried—”

“Dutch is here,” she said. “He’s in the cave.”

“He’s here?”

They parted. She looked up at Arthur and took a deep breath. He had a shiner on his cheek but it was nothing alarming. He didn’t seem to be bleeding from anywhere. “Something bad happened,” she said.

This confused him, so she took his hand and led him to the back of the cave. Dutch was there, in the pale circle of light from the oil lamp, sitting with his head hanging between his knees. In front of him with the dead body of Colm O’Driscoll.

“Holy shit,” said Arthur, scanning the situation and removing his hat. “What happened?”

“Colm came,” said Mary Beth. “He was—looking for some place to hide. He found me.”

Arthur looked shocked, and he had this wildness then, something unhinged about it, just around the edges, like he might snap. She hadn’t seen it much before. But then he softened when he looked at her. He put some of the hair behind her ear. It calmed him down. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. He didn’t—it was scary, but he didn’t do nothing to me. Dutch came in time. Killed him, obviously.”

Arthur sighed, real serious. He went over to Dutch then, stepping over Colm'd body. He got down to one knee to try and figure out what was going on. “Dutch,” he said. Dutch was unresponsive. He snapped his fingers. “Dutch. You conscious?”

Finally, he looked up. His head sort of swiveled. He blinked and exhaled. “Arthur.”

“You okay?” said Arthur. He reached around into his satchel, handed Dutch a canteen of cold water. Dutch took a drink, gave it back, wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“I'm fine,” he said. He got up again. Arthur helped him to his feet. “Jesus Christ.”

“You killed him,” said Arthur, testing the body with his boot. “Colm O’Driscoll. He’s dead.”

“Indeed,” said Dutch, breathing heavily, his hands on his hips. “Did we get Kieran?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Everyone’s outside.”

“Good.” Dutch nodded. “Very good, son.” He clapped his hand to Arthur's back, and then he turned around and proceeded to haul Colm O’Driscoll’s body up off the floor of the cave and over his shoulder. Arthur offered to help, but Dutch wouldn’t allow it. “Go on,” he said instead. “Both of you. Get. Let’s not spend another goddam minute in this goddam cave.”

He went out first, lumbering, but sure on his feet. Once he was out of earshot, Arthur said to Mary Beth, “What all happened here, exactly?”

She shrugged, slinging her shotgun over her shoulder. “I’ll tell you later,” she said.

He nodded, then he turned to her again, one more time before they left the cave. It was cold and eerie but they were alone. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Mary Beth. I should’ve—”

“There was no way you could’ve known, Arthur,” she said. “I’m sure I was still safer here, in the grand scheme.”

He sighed, pulled her in again, real firm, kissing the top of her head. “You’re too brave, woman.”

She laughed at this. Truth be told, she was still shook up, but having him back, knowing the night was over—it was enough to sustain her. “Ain’t no such thing as too brave,” she said.

They were about to leave then, Arthur with his arm slung around her shoulders. But before they could get outside, Mary Beth thought of something. She stopped him.

“Something wrong?” said Arthur.

“I’m not sure,” she said, glancing around, as if making sure they were still alone. “It’s just—I gotta tell you, now. Dutch said something, while he was…strangling Colm. It worried me.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, first, he was just beating him up. He said it was for you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” said Mary Beth. “He said, ‘This is for Arthur,’ and then some other stuff. That part…that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Arthur seemed surprised, a little taken aback maybe. “What else did he say?”

“It was right at the end,” said Mary Beth. “Right before Colm…died. He said, ‘This is for  _them_.’”

Arthur gave her a look. He lit a cigarette, gave it to her. She smoked, took a big, long drag, let the nicotine soak into her blood, calm her nerves considerably. “ _Them_?” he said.

“Yeah,  _them,_ ” said Mary Beth, exhaling the smoke. “Do you know of anyone else Colm might’ve killed, other than Annabelle? Who Dutch was talking about?”

“No,” said Arthur, shaking his head. He’d lit his own cigarette now, smoked and closed his eyes like he was trying to remember, but it was crickets. “No.”

           

Outside, Charles had steadied Kieran and they were sitting down on a long piece of driftwood and Kieran was drinking some water out of a tin cup. Kieran was bloodied up in his face, real good, and he looked shook to high hell, but he wasn’t shot, and he was conscious. He seemed to fill with considerable warmth when Mary Beth went over and sat down beside him.

“Hi, Miss Gaskill,” he said, real bashful.

“Hey, Kieran.”

“I’m sorry I—I missed our last reading lesson.”

She took his hand. She smiled, close to crying. She had a real soft spot for him, and she was very relieved. Maybe she knew somewhere deep down he had taken a shine to her, and she didn’t feel the same, but they were friends. She hoped he knew. “I was real worried,” she said.

“Arthur said it was you who lead the way.”

“I couldn’t’ve done it alone,” she said.

When Dutch hauled Colm’s body out into the advancing daylight then, Sadie went right over to him. She was all dirty, blood staining her neck and one whole side of her face, and she seemed full of pent-up rage and excitement. “You did it. You killed him.” She wiped her face on the back of her hand, sheathing her knife.

“That, I did,” said Dutch. “Colm O’Driscoll is dead. But there are many O’Driscolls, not just the thirteen we dispatched of tonight. They won't take kindly to this.”

“What you gonna do?” said Sadie. “If you’re going for more of them, you gotta bring me with you.”

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Adler,” said Dutch, placing his hand on her shoulder. “One step at a time.”

“What now, Dutch?” said Arthur.

“Now,” said Dutch, “we get the hell out of here. Charles, Sadie, the two of you bring Mr. O’Driscoll’s body down to the Sheriff’s station in St. Denis. There’s gonna be a considerable bounty on his head, and we’re gonna reap it.” He looked at Arthur. “Arthur, Mary Beth, the two of you get Kieran back to Shady Belle, and then I want you to…take a break. Take a vacation. Come back, if you will, please, but get out of the swamps for a week or two. Mary Beth, you been through enough.”

“What about you?” said Arthur.

“I’m—I’m gonna stay here,” he said, looking around. “I need to…clear my head. Get my bearings. I need a plan.”

“You can’t stay here alone,” said Arthur. “It ain’t safe. We're mighty close to Blackwater, Dutch.”

"I’ll be fine, Arthur,” said Dutch, looking up at him from beneath the low brim of his black hat. “Please. Take your fiancé, and leave.”

“Fiancé?” said Sadie, looking from Mary Beth to Arthur then back to Mary Beth. “You two engaged?”

This seemed to defuse everything, all the badness from the night and the uncertainty on the beach. It went away in an instant.

Arthur took a deep breath and scratched at his beard. He deferred to Mary Beth. She became self-conscious and blushed. “Yes, we are.”

“Well, congratulations,” said Sadie, real happy all of a sudden, slugging Arthur in the shoulder. She was coming to her faculties again and smiling, looking more like Sadie. But it was always a certain sadness, with Sadie—back behind her eyes somewhere. “When’s the wedding?”

“Wedding?” said Kieran, looking wobbly. He blinked, looked around, bleary-eyed but okay. “I’ve missed quite a bit, I guess. I need to catch up.”

"You need to rest,” said Arthur. “You been through a fair amount of hell back there.”

“And we ain’t—we don’t got specifics, Sadie,” said Mary Beth, shyly. “I’ll let you know.”

Charles patted Arthur on the back in a stoic manner. “That’s good, man. Real good.”

“Thanks, Charles.”

“Anyway,” said Dutch. “Now that we’re all here and together and established again like one big, happy family, it’s time to disperse.”

“We hear you,” said Arthur. “But I just—” He leaned close, lowered his voice. Dutch seemed out of sorts, and with all that stuff Mary Beth had said back in the cave, he was worried. “Are you sure you wanna stay here, by yourself? We’ll stay with you. It’s no problem.”

“I’m sure,” said Dutch. “Tell Hosea I’ll be back in a few days.”

Arthur nodded, hooking his gloved hands over his belt. "Okay," he said, unwilling to argue. He looked around as Charles and Sadie started deconstructing their camp. All seemed clear. It was a new day by now, with the sun up over the lake and soaking their insides with its warmth and renewal. A flock of geese had come down to roost by the water's edge. Some of them were going out and wetting their feathers. A bunch of little babies were waddling in a straight line behind their mother.

Mary Beth came over. "Look at them goslings," she said, pointing. "See them, Arthur?"

A breeze came through, blowing her hair around. The air smelled good.

"Yeah, they're real cute," he said, smiling down at her. He asked Mary Beth if she would like to wear his jacket, as that breeze was chilly. 

"I'm okay," she said, linking her arm in his, placing her head on his shoulder. "Thanks, Arthur." They watched the birds.

 


	27. American Mothers

They rode hard on their way back to Shady Belle, but even still. Kieran lost his steam in the evening and could no longer hold himself up on the back of Arthur’s horse. He seemed to have some cracked ribs or something, and this made it hard for him. They camped out near the river, right on the cusp of the swamp, and they put him in the tent, and he liquored up for the anesthetic properties. Meanwhile Arthur and Mary Beth set their bedrolls up outside, near the fire, under the stars. It was a fine break.

But Arthur was in some kind of pain. He was a little more beat up than he had let on to Mary Beth the night before, and now, with the adrenaline wore off and the night looming ahead, he was finally feeling it. He had the shiner on his cheek but it had come from throwing hands with the great big psychopath who had been guarding Kieran in Colm’s absence. In getting the gun away from him, Arthur endured a boot to the chest and a lot of gut punches. On one occasion, he had nearly lost consciousness and got a loud ringing in his ears when thrown hard into the stone wall of the cellar. Charles had come and dispatched of the man with his sawed-off at that point, and this is when they untied Kieran and got the fuck out of there. In any case, his entire body hurt. It felt like there was a ton of dull grit in his joints, and he thought his jaw might be a little loose. There was little blood, just black and blue, and he didn’t want to worry Mary Beth. So he tried to stay hushed about it that night when they lie side-by-side, sleeping on the hard earth, but she was canny and she noticed something was wrong nonetheless. She started asking him about it as soon as they heard Kieran start to snore from inside the tent.

“Arthur, how hurt are you?” she said, getting up. The crackling of the fire was all you could really hear.

“I’m fine,” said Arthur, lying flat on his back. Like a slab. “Leave it be, Mary Beth.”

“Sit up.”

“I ain’t gonna sit up.”

“Why not?”

He opened his eyes, turned his head a little to look at her. “Because. I’d prefer not to sit up. Not right now. If it’s all the same to you, my lady.”

“What happened?” she said. “Tell me, Arthur. Just because we’re getting married that don’t mean you get to start hiding stuff from me. That ain’t how this works. We’re still friends. You ain’t protecting nobody with that act of yours.”

He gave her a look. “I ain’t acting.” He took a deep breath then, winced. “You wanna know what happened?”

“Yeah.”

“I took a bad beating back there, at Lone Mule,” he said. “A big guy, he got a piece of me. No guns, no blood. Nothing like that. Just bruises. And I’ll be fine.”

“Why didn’t you just say so? About the beating?” she said.

“Because it ain’t life threatening,” he said. “I ain’t much of a complainer, and you don’t need to worry about it.”

“But you’re hurt, Arthur. I wanna know.”

“Why? So you can coddle me?”

She stayed quiet.

He sighed after this, feeling bad. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. He turned toward her and it caused him pain to do so. He grabbed his side but didn’t linger and shook out his head to snap himself out of it. It was dull, he knew, and nothing was broken, and it would all subside in a week or so. “Mary Beth, I will always tell you the stuff you need to know. Understand?”

She shrugged. “Yes.”

“I can see that you’re overly worried,” he went on. “And I mean overly. As much as I am grateful to you for caring about me, I need you to try to take your own advice this time, just a little bit.”

“My own advice?”

“Yes. Just because we’re getting married, that don’t change what was,” he said. “Once, we was just friends, and I’d come to you in all manner of harm and distress and it was none the difference per our interactions, unless I said so. It’s one thing if I’m bleeding from the head, or if I’m shot, like what happened a few weeks ago, back up north. You will know when I am in more pain or danger than I can manage, but try to remember what’s remained. I ain’t no delicate specimen. I have dealt with a lot of…bodily misfortune over the years and if there is one thing I know better than anything about myself, it’s that I can handle a goddam beating. I’m okay.”

“But—”

He held up his hand, stopped her cold. “I’ll live. Please stop worrying.”

She sighed. She lay down again, on her back, staring up at the sky and fussing with the ends of her hair. She seemed off.

“You okay?” he said, softer now. “You seem…anxious. Is this about last night?”

“Probably,” she said, too quickly. She looked a little annoyed for another minute, but then, out of nowhere, she seemed to reset, and she smiled in her regular habits of misdirection, and this was perplexing.

“What’s funny?” he said.

“Nothing,” she said. She looked at him.

“What is it?”

“When we first got back from that trip up north,” she said, “and you was out, talking to Hosea on the balcony, Abigail stole me away and made me tell her everything about us.”

This defused the argument. It was completely amusing to him. “Well, that sounds about right.”

“Anyway,” said Mary Beth, still fussing with her hair. “We ended up talking about you. She told me a story about this one time…this time before I got here, when you got so drunk in a saloon, you punched a hole in a piano.”

Arthur blinked. He had forgotten all about that. “Shit,” he said. “Abigail remembers the piano?”

Mary Beth shrugged, still smiling. “I think you was in a bad way when you did it. Still. It was kind of a funny image. Picturing you, so big and drunk and just like, swinging your arms around, landing a hole right in a piano. I ain’t making fun. Just…the idea. It’s like something out of a moving picture show.”

Arthur laughed at this, low and deep in his chest. He was lying on his back again with his eyes closed. “Yeah. I’d seen better days. Better years in fact. I was an idiot.”

“You was heartbroken,” she said. “It’s okay, Arthur. Everybody does stupid stuff when they’re out of their right mind.”

 Arthur opened his eyes, looking up at the long, stretching galaxies and the milky way. He spotted the Big Dipper. He thought about Dutch.

“Arthur?” said Mary Beth. “You fall asleep?”

He looked at her again. She was very pretty in her mild, freckled way. “No,” he said. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About Dutch,” he said. “And what you told me. How he said it was for _them,_ when he killed Colm. You think—you think that could mean she was pregnant? Annabelle? When Colm killed her?”

Mary Beth curled up toward him, got closer so she could smell the smoke on his clothes. “Yeah,” she said.

Arthur took a very deep breath. “Jesus.”

“Poor Dutch,” she said, shaking her head. “Why wouldn’t he tell you? All those years ago?”

“My guess is he didn’t wanna talk about it. Talking about it, that makes it real. I never told no one about Isaac who didn’t already know, not until I told you a few weeks back, Mary Beth. That’s just…that’s just the way it is sometimes, you know?”

She nodded, seeming distant all of a sudden. “Yeah, I know.” she said. She went back to fussing with her hair, taking the plaits apart. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“For what?”

“For pressing you before. I trust you. I know you’ll tell me if something’s bad. I guess I was just feeling anxious, like you said.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I know it’s coming from a good place.”

She smiled.

They heard talking then, from the tent. They both turned to see but it was just Kieran, babbling something about horses, and raccoons, on and on in his sleep.

Arthur looked completely miffed. “Does he do that regularly?” he said.

“How would I know?”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “You seem to know a lot of stuff I don’t know.”

She laughed, looking up at the molten sky.

The next morning, Arthur was up early. His body was still stiff, but he was on his routine, heading out into the shallow wilderness, and he shot a couple rabbits for their breakfast. When he got back, it was just coming past dawn, and Mary Beth was still hard asleep in her bedroll, her hair flung to the pillow as a kind of masterpiece. He went down to the water a little ways. He sat on a heavy piece of driftwood and rolled a few cigarettes and tucked them into his pocket, and then he lit one and smoked as he began to skin and dress the rabbits for roasting. It was repetitive work, but it was satisfying. Arthur wasn’t really the kind of man who yearned for complexities in his daily life. He had enough going on inside his messed up brain, stuff he was only just coming to terms with in recent months. These sorts of quiet routines made him happy.

At some point, Kieran came down. He looked worse for the wear but also somehow better than he had the night before. The sleep had done him kindly.

“Morning,” said Arthur.

“Good morning, Arthur,” said Kieran. “Mind if I sit?”

“Of course not. How you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” said Kieran. He nodded, looking out at the water. It was kind of silvery. “My chest still feels like I ran into a damn elephant, but my head feels better.”

“Well that’s cracked ribs for you,” said Arthur. “I been there. You’re gonna need a month, at least, before that pain subsides completely. Just try to take it easy. You’ll be okay.”

“Thank you,” said Kieran.

They sat for a little while. Arthur finished up with the rabbits and stuck them onto a couple spits. He was thinking now about coffee.

“So,” said Kieran after a little while.

It was kind of loaded sounding, like he was meaning to get something off his chest. Arthur cleared his throat.

“You and Mary Beth,” Kieran went on, wringing his hands a little bit. “You guys are, uh…you’re getting married, huh?”

Arthur sighed. He took a couple mint leaves out his front pocket to chew on. He offered some to Kieran, but Kieran declined. “Yeah,” he said. “That, we are.”

Kieran nodded, shifting his weight, though this seemed to cause him pain. He bit it back. “Well, congratulations,” he said, drawing a little somber. “I mean, I knew you guys was close. I guess I didn’t know how close.”

Arthur shrugged, and then he looked right at him, squaring up. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry for what?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” said Arthur, scratching his head. “I know—I know you was sweet on her. Or, at least it seemed that way.”

Kieran kind of laughed to himself. “Yeah. I mean, it wasn’t what you think. It ain’t hard to be sweet on Mary Beth.”

“I get that. I just—you know I didn’t intend to—when we went on that hunting trip. It surprised me, too.”

“Oh, I’m not surprised,” said Kieran.

Arthur looked up from his boots. “You ain’t?”

“Not at all,” said Kieran, oddly gracious. “I mean, Mary Beth is…she’s real nice to me. She was nice when not many folks was. I mean, you know how shocked I was to see Sadie, showing up guns blazing to save my ass?”

Arthur laughed. “Yeah, well, I hate to burst your bubble, but I think Mrs. Adler came more for the O’Driscoll blood than the rescue mission, but that’s just my interpretation.”

“Anyway,” said Kieran, glancing at his hands. They were bandaged around the palms. Colm had burned them. “Mary Beth is nice. She’s teaching me to read. She’s a good listener, and she gives me the time of day. Plus, she’s real pretty. And know I don’t mean no disrespect by it. It’s just true. But…I know she’s out of my league. I ain’t—she was always gonna go for someone more, well, someone more like you, Arthur.”

“Like me?” He spat the mint leaves into the sand. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, like, a hero,” he said. “Chivalrous-like, good with girls. Real in charge. Tall. Strong. Like the kind she reads about in her books.”

Arthur took a deep breath. “I ain’t no hero, son.”

“Well, you saved my life.”

“And you saved mine,” said Arthur, “months ago. You didn’t know me but for a man who had hogtied you in the snow and let you stay tied to a tree for days. Starving, suffering, and still you saved my life. I regret my actions.”

“It’s okay, Arthur.”

“No,” said Arthur. “No it ain’t. I see things…different now, Kieran. Mary Beth, she has that effect, but it ain’t just her. She draws it out because she believes in me, but this…feeling. It was already there. I got strung up and tortured not too long ago, just like you, and by the same piece of shit no less. The way I see it, we’s equals. And I know that, because I got something to lose now, and that’s changed me. I ain’t a hero, but I am trying to be a better man than I was before. And in any case you desered rescuing from the O’Driscoll gang. You’re one of us now.”

Kieran was looking on, sort of speechless. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay,” said Arthur, lighting a cigarette, handing it to him. Kieran took it without question. “You don’t gotta say anything. We’re square now. You and me. Comrades, okay? I mean it. For once.”

Kieran didn’t smoke the cigarette. He just held it, like in solidarity. This, all of this seemed to make him tremendous with relief and joy. “I got it,” he said, bucking up. “Comrades.”

“Good,” said Arthur.

After a minute then, they got up to fix the rabbits on the fire. Kieran started making the coffee. Mary Beth was still sleeping, spectacularly so. It had been quite the ordeal, the night before, thought Arthur. She must have needed it.

“How old are you anyway?” said Arthur. “I’m just curious.”

“I’m twenty-one,” said Kieran.

“My word,” said Arthur.

“What’s that?”

“I just mean—you learn how to read, and then you need to get yourself out of this mess. You’d be a fine a ranch hand somewhere. You don’t need us.”

“It ain’t always about need, Arthur,” said Kieran, closing the cap on the percolator. “I don’t much like being alone.”

Arthur thought on this. It rang with him in an unsuspecting way.

“Where do you wanna get married?” said Kieran in another couple minutes. “In a church, maybe? In front of God and all?”

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “A church would be…good. Something like that would be real nice, I reckon. I ain’t never really been religious. But I think Mary Beth was raised Protestant.”

“Well, that sounds fine,” said Kieran.

Arthur cleared his throat then. He had begun to turn the rabbits over the fire. “Hey Kieran,” he said. He looked up at the early morning sky. It seemed filled with birds.

“Yeah?”

“You do a lot of good work with the animals around camp. That’s something I especially appreciate.”    

“I know.”

“Do you got a horse of your own?”

“No,” said Kieran. The coffee was just about done now. Somewhere nearby, there were the sounds of shuffling livestock, but you couldn’t see nothing. It must have been over the ridge. “I been saving though. Almost got enough.”

“Well, when we get back to Shady Belle, why don’t you keep Diana? At least for the time being, until you can afford a steed of your choosing.”

“Really?” said Kieran.

“Yeah,” said Arthur. “Why not. She’s clearly taken to you, and she ain’t the fastest, but she’s a good girl, real brave, and she deserves a good rider. She’ll serve you well.”

“Wow, I—but wait. I ain’t seen her since Rhodes. What if—what if something happened?”

“She’s fine,” said Arthur, waving him off. “She turned up at camp all by her lonesome. It’s what tipped us off you was in trouble.”

This seemed to bring him considerable relief. “Well, thank you, Arthur. That’s real generous of you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mary Beth stirred then, in her bedroll nearby. The sun was up, and she must have smelled the coffee and heard the talking. She sat up, and she had a great big leaf in her hair. “Morning, y’all,” she said. “Is that coffee?”

Arthur smirked when he saw her. “Sure is. Good morning, sleepy head. You dream well?”

“I did,” she said. “The stars, they agree with me. Hey, Kieran.”

“Hey, Mary Beth,” he said. “You know, you got a big leaf in your hair.”

This surprised her. Arthur laughed to himself. “Oh,” she said, picking it out. “Thanks, Kieran.”

“Of course.”

“You should put it back,” said Arthur, still with that smirk. “I liked it there.”

“Yeah well, you would, Arthur Morgan.” She tossed the leaf into the sand.

 

When they got back to Shady Belle that afternoon, it was a comfortable scene. Many were sprawled out in the hot sun, taking naps, and Javier played his guitar down by the swamp’s edge while Karen sang. John and Abigail were out rocking on the front porch, a book shared between them. John was giving her some light lessons on reading.

“There you go,” he was saying. “You got it, Abbie.”

She blushed every time he encouraged her. “Oh, please,” she said. “I’m terrible.”

“You are not,” said John. “Just a little practice. That’s all you need. You’re doing great.”

She shoved him, playful. “Be quiet, John Marston.”

When Arthur and Mary Beth came up the yard with Kieran, they closed the book and came rushing. They were relieved to see everybody okay, but almost as if premeditated, Abigail had scooped up Mary Beth and drug her inside. “You’re telling me everything,” she said. Mary Beth was confused. In any case, she went along anyway, and the two of them were gone as quick as birds off the wire.

Meanwhile, Kieran was beat. Arthur eased him onto one of the old cots inside the mansion, the one where Mary Beth had used to sleep. Tilly came in, happy to see he was okay. She offered to keep a watch on him for a little while that afternoon. Pearson did as well. Hosea was sleeping in his room with all the windows open. Apparently, Miss. Grimshaw was on some sort of a tear with Dutch still at large. Most were eagerly looking to avoid her wrath.

With Kieran taken care of and the girls upstairs, Arthur and John went outside to the back porch to have a smoke. John seemed agitated.

“What’s with you?” said Arthur after a little while, lighting a cigarette from his pocket, handing it over to John. He then let one for himself. “And what’s with Abigail? Whisking Mary Beth off like that? Something going on?”

John took a quick drag, scratched at the scruff along his jawline. “Charles and Sadie stopped through this morning,” he said, “on their way into St. Denis. With Colm O’Driscoll’s dead body.”

“Yeah. Dutch killed him,” said Arthur. “Can you believe it? They’re going in for the bounty. Ought to be a nice little sum for us.”

“I guess,” said John.

Arthur took to eye-balling him then, trying to figure him through. “Something else on your mind, John?

“Yeah,” said John, huffing. “There is.”

“Okay.”

“Sadie said you was engaged,” he went on. “You and Mary Beth. You’re getting married?”

Arthur sighed, flicked the cigarette. It figured, that’s what Abigail was on about. “Sadie,” he muttered, surveying the lividity of the swamp, smoking.

“Jesus Christ,” John said, “were you gonna tell anyone?”

Arthur gave him a look. “Of course.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“It happened like five days ago,” said Arthur. “We was just keeping it between us, just for a little while. A couple can’t share a goddam moment between them? We gotta paint it on a banner, wave it all over town?”

“No,” said John. “But you could’ve...you could’ve told me. I’m happy for you. And I wanna...I wanna know things.”

“You wanna know things.”

“Yeah,” said John, almost growing defensive. But then he calmed down, nodded, looking out at the swamps with his chest puffed up. “Yeah. I do.”

Arthur smiled. “Well, ain’t that nice.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. But you gotta understand. It ain’t been a lot of opportune moments since we got back.”

“I know,” said John. “And…it’s okay. I just—congratulations, brother.”

“Thank you.”

They smoked. They listened to the haunted noises of the trees. It was windy.

“So,” said Arthur, adjusting his hat. “You teaching Abigail how to read?”

“I’m doing my best,” said John, shrugging. “I mean, I ain’t you. I don’t do…poetry. But I can hold my own. We’re reading _Huckleberry Finn._ ”

Arthur nodded. “You know, I think you might like poetry, if you just gave it a shot.”

John looked at him, real earnest. “You think so?”

Arthur smiled, became serious. “It’s a real thoughtful thing, you teaching her to read. She appreciates it. Even if she don’t say so.”

John sighed, looked around, still seeming a little stressed by all this. This husband stuff, father stuff. “Well, I’m trying,” he said.

“You’re doing fine.”

“What about you?” said John. “How are you doing? Charles said there was some bad business with Colm. That he threatened Mary Beth?”

“Yeah, he did,” said Arthur. They could hear Jack now, like he’d just woke up, yelling for Abigail out front. “She’s okay.”

“Are you okay?” said John.

“I’m fine,” said Arthur. “A little banged up, nothing serious.”

“No, I mean—I mean with Mary Beth being in danger. I know how you get.”

“How I get?”

“Yeah,” said John. “You get worried. You’re a worrier, Arthur.”

“I am not,” said Arthur, knowing full well he was lying. “Anyway. It’s okay now. And I need to talk to Hosea about some things but then me and Mary Beth, we’re thinking of heading up north for a little while. Leaving tonight, for a couple weeks.”

“Up north?” said John. “Where to?”

“We got a place we’d like to visit, just the two of us, in the Roanoke Valley. But then we plan on swinging back down through Emerald Station to stay at a bed and breakfast there. You and Abigail and the boy, you should come meet us. In about ten days time. We could go fishing, shoot the shit a little. Relax.”

John was surprised, scuffed his boot across the porch wood. “Meet you in Emerald Station?”

“You don’t have to,” said Arthur. “But we know the people who run the place and they’re real nice. They know we’re outlaws and they don’t make no fuss so, that’s good. Anyway it was just a suggestion. I thought maybe you might wanna get them outta here, even just for a couple of days. We’re still planning on leaving, on that permanent basis we discussed, but I think Mary Beth would like to know that we are not leaving too much chaos in our wake. I’m not sure I agree. But I’m compromising, for the time being, as long as things stay quiet.”

John seemed to think on this, nodded. He looked around. Out by the water they saw Pearson with his bucket and his rod and reel. He was getting into the canoe there. “Yeah,” said John. “Maybe. That might be nice. Meeting you all.”

“Let me know,” said Arthur. “Talk to Abigail. Like I said, just meet us there in ten days—from tomorrow, if you do decide. Either way, I’ll mark the place for you on a map. It’s a big homestead with a lot of rooms.”

“Sounds real good,” said John.

 

Meanwhile, upstairs, Abigail holed them both up in Arthur’s room and was trying to get Mary Beth to tell her all about Arthur’s proposal. Mary Beth was distracted. She didn’t much feel like talking, but she was trying to humor Abigail. She liked Abigail very much. She was glad they were becoming better friends. She looked forward to a life in which they got to do this everyday, safely somewhere else, with the boys nearby and the air so clean—all of it so clean.

“He just…asked,” she said, shrugging. She sat down on the bed. She was taking her braids out and then putting them back in again. “Or, more like, he suggested. We was lying here, and tired, and it was the end of the day, and he said, ‘Marry me.’ It was romantic in a quiet sort of way, in his way. Arthur ain’t a man of grand gestures, and I appreciate that. I think—I think I been living my life for a long time on the fictional pretense of grand gestures. So much books and stories. And I love stories, but this felt real. It felt like it should feel. Like it’s made to last.” She sighed, shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m doing a bad job explaining.” She looked down at her boots.

“I think you’re explaining just fine,” said Abigail. “You got such a beautiful way with words. It’s beautiful. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks,” said Mary Beth, straightening the pillows. “That means a lot.”

“What’s the matter?” said Abigail, coming to sit next to her. The small bed creaked beneath their weight. “Ain’t you excited?”

“Of course,” said Mary Beth. “I love Arthur.”

“Then why you seem so glum?” said Abigail. “Mary Beth? Is it because of what happened? I heard it was bad. I heard it was Colm O’Driscoll back on his shit. Fuckin asshole. But he’s dead now. Old Dutch saw to that. You don’t have to be scared no more. You’re safe.”

Mary Beth smiled at this. She was playing with the hem of her skirt now where the threading was coming apart. “I know. I ain’t scared of no O’Driscolls, Abigail. He wasn’t even much to see. I been in tighter spots this very month.”

“What is it then?”

“I just—I got a lot on my mind.”

“You can tell me,” said Abigail. She scooped up her hands. She had such a warmth about her. You’d never know till you got close enough.

Mary Beth took a deep breath. She met Abigail eye to eye. “I’m running…kind of late,” she said.

“Late?”

“My period. It’s late.”

Abigail got quiet. She straightened up real good. She lowered her voice. “How late?”

“Like a week, maybe a little more? I just know it shoulda come by now.”

“How you feeling?”

“I feel fine,” said Mary Beth. “Why?”

But then, they heard Arthur. He was coming up the stairs, his familiar footsteps, and he opened the door. “Mary Beth?”

“Hey,” she said, smiling, teeth and all.

“You almost ready, baby doll? We should ride if we’re gonna make it past the marshes by dark. Otherwise I wanna wait till morning.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll just—I’ll be one minute.”

“Okay,” he said, looking bright. “Hey, Abigail.”

“Hey, Arthur.”

He smiled then and went away and closed the door behind him.

Mary Beth sat very still. Abigail was blushing. “ _Baby doll,_ ” she said, mimicking his deep voice. “That’s your baby’s daddy, Mary Beth. Boy oh boy he loves you. Old sad eyes Arthur Morgan. I never seen him so goddam happy.”

Mary Beth nudged her. “Shh,” she said, her stomach doing backflips.

“When are you gonna tell him?” said Abigail.

By now, Mary Beth’s hem had come completely loose. She’d have to resew it by hand. She took a deep breath, nervous for some reason she could not put her finger on. It wasn’t the possibility of the baby making her nervous. It was something adjacent to the baby, but it wasn’t the baby. What was it? “Not till I know for sure,” she said.

It brought the whole world down into perspective for Mary Beth. Very, very fast.


	28. Into the Inferno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to break this great big story down into three parts. This chapter marks the end of Part II. <3 -gala

On their way up to O’Creagh’s Run, where they had specific plans to visit with Hamish Sinclair, Arthur and Mary Beth took a planned stopover in Valentine. It was a great deal out of the way, but they had gotten going a little later than hoped for, and this allowed them to avoid the bayou. The ride took nearly five days with them pushing at a modest pace, and it was quite beautiful. The weather held up for them. Being back in this chillier part of New Hanover was like coming home. The plains and the canyons of the Heartlands were filled with echoes and crisp air and animals. One clear day, at twilight, Arthur hunted a prize Pronghorn buck, and Mary Beth found the feat to be impressive. She thought, everyday day he did something new. She understood him well as a man on the range, but seeing him at work was something else. He skinned it up and cleaned it good. Arthur kept the pelt. Said Pearson would appreciate its pristine majesty, and what they could not eat or reliably store, they sold off at the butcher in Valentine. They got in past midnight and rented a room at the hotel where they got a good night's sleep and ate breakfast at the saloon the next morning.

They now sat, comfortably, at a table by the window. Arthur had his map out. He was coordinating their route, which would be similar to last time, though he reckoned they might head off north more quickly so he could show Mary Beth the Cumberland Forest. It was a site they did not see on their last hunting trip, but that he very much knew she would appreciate.

Mary Beth, meanwhile, nursed her coffee and waited. She had been quiet for much of the trip. Or, quieter than was typical for her. She still seemed preoccupied. Arthur had been chalking it up to the ordeal with Colm, though he was no longer fully satisfied with the explanation. There was something else going on. For as tough as that confrontation had been, he knew Mary Beth, and unless she was lying to him about what had gone down in that cave, he knew she had endured tougher circumstances and emerged far more resilient than she was presenting to him now. For a long time, he let it go. But she was full of sighing. That morning, she also seemed glassy-eyed.

So he folded the map shut, no longer looking for her input. She was looking down into her coffee as if contemplating the end of the world.

“Hey,” he said.

She looked up. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

It was a question that caught her off-guard. Usually, it was her asking him if he was okay. “Of course," she said. "Why?”

“You don’t seem okay,” he said, elbows on the table. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Did something happen with Colm that you ain’t letting on?”

“What?” she said. “No, it happened exactly like I said. I wouldn't lie about that.”

“Then, well. Is it the wedding, Mary Beth?” he said. “If you're having second thoughts, please tell me now."

“No,” she said. "Arthur, I am not having second thoughts.”

“Then what’s wrong?” he said. “It ain’t like you to…hang onto stuff. It’s like me, but it ain’t like you.”

She blinked, turning the mug between her hands. It was no longer steaming. She looked like she was about to say something when a commotion rose up outside. It had rained in the night before, and a covered wagon had broken an axel in the mud. The noise was loud. The wagon had been driven by a woman who looked like she was affiliated with a higher status, or perhaps the suffrage movement. She was wearing pants, and an expensive looking jacket, and she was alone. The horses were fussing. “Shit,” said Arthur, surveying the situation. It was holding up some traffic and the townspeople were getting antsy. A couple of men in floppy hats came along to try and help her repair the axel, but they seemed either too weak or too stupid to figure it out.

“Go on,” said Mary Beth. “Help her out. I’ll wait here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” she said. “If you can help, you should.”

He nodded, left the booth, kissed her on the hair. "I'll be right back," he said.

Once he was gone, she sighed, watching him through the window. Once again, a man of his deftness when it came to providing. It had been five days now since her talk with Abigail back at Shady Belle, still with no changes or developments. She sipped her coffee. She took a deep breath. The night before, she'd dreamed of a huge pumpkin patch. It was a dream she'd had before, but that she hadn't had in a while. Usually, in the dream, she was alone, staring into the black horizon. But this time, she was not alone. She was holding a baby, and the horizon was green, and the baby was very small. Too small, she remembered thinking. It was abnormally small, and she was consumed with protecting the baby. There were bears and monsters outside that long field. And in the middle of the field, she remembered there was a giant hole that went so deep, she couldn't see to the bottom. She called out for help in the dream, but nobody came. She didn't remember Arthur being there. You know those dreams you have, where certain people just don't exist? That's the kind of dream this was. She could not decide if it had been a nightmare. Nothing bad had happened. It just felt...strange. She sipped her coffee. Her stomach turned.

That is when a woman came. This was not a woman she recognized. The woman sat down on the other side of the booth, seeming unsure of herself. She wore a high collar and her dress looked, not expensive, but like it was bought, not made. She was pretty, and a little older than Mary Beth. Her hair was tied off her face neatly. She wore gloves.

“Hi,” said Mary Beth, straightening up. “Can I help you?"

The woman shifted. She glanced briefly out the window to where Arthur was directing a few men to help him with the broken axel, and then she looked back at Mary Beth. “Maybe," she said.

“Are you lost or something? You need directions?"

“I’m—I just—you're Mary Beth, right?" said the woman, looking right at her.

Mary Beth was confused. She shrugged. "That depends on who's asking. Have we met?"

“Do you recognize me?”

"No," said Mary Beth. "Should I?"

“I'm not sure." She glanced out the window again, at Arthur.

Mary Beth pushed her coffee to the side then. When you run with Dutch, you learn not to take any chances. “Do you know that man?” she said.

The woman blushed. “Yes,” she said, wringing her gloved hands. "I do."

"How do you know him?"

“I’m Mary,” said the woman, looking up. “Mary Linton. Perhaps Arthur's mentioned me?”

The revelation was a whole, entire shock to Mary Beth. Like a fuckin slap in the face. “Mary Linton?”

She nodded.

“What are you doing here?” said Mary Beth. She knew she sounded rude, but the situation seemed immediately fucked up. “It's quite the coincidence, ain’t it? Didn’t you last speak to him in St. Denis?”

“Yes," said Mary. "I’m on my way back west. I know a woman with a homestead outside Valentine, and the next train don’t leave till tonight.”

“Did you follow us here?”

“I—no. Not exactly.”

Mary Beth gave her a long, wary look. She felt a little unkempt and frazzled in comparison by ladylike standards, but that wasn't enough to intimidate her. “Well I don’t know why you’re talking to me,” she said, “Mary. But I think—I think I know a lot about what’s going on. And you’re maybe making a mistake.”

Mary sighed. She seemed nervous. “When I came here, I didn’t know for sure what I'd find, but then I saw the two of you. Are you—are you with him? Are the two of you together? Romantically?”

Mary Beth was not sure what she was supposed to be saying or doing. The situation was so unexpected. Like something out of a story. She looked out the window again, for Arthur, but he wasn't there anymore. “Why you askin?" she said.

Mary fussed then, with the silver button on her pocketbook.

“Are you all right?” said Mary Beth.

“Yes. I didn’t intend—”

But then.

“Mary?” He was back inside now, approaching the table, taking his gloves off. He was sweating from the work outside. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m just—” She rose quickly upon seeing him, holding her pocketbook in both hands. She looked from Arthur to Mary Beth, then back to Arthur. “I’m staying in town. I saw…the both of you. Here. I came over to say hello.”

Arthur nodded, looking mighty suspicious. "You came over to say hello after I went outside."

"Yes."

“And you just happen to be in town."

“Please, Arthur,” she said. “I didn’t—no. Not exactly.”

Arthur sighed. 

“I went to Shady Belle,” she said, unprompted. “Two days ago.”

This came as a shock. Behind them in the saloon, a poker game had started up, and it was already getting raucous. It drew their attention for a moment, but then Arthur looked back at Mary, shaking his head in confusion. “How did you know about Shady Belle.”

“Because you mentioned it last I saw you.”

"You mention it to anyone else?"

"No," she said. "You know me, Arthur. I would never do that."

"Yeah, not you," he said, scrubbing at his chin. "I was thinking more about that piece of shit father of yours."

"Arthur, please."

He took a deep breath. “When you were at Shady Bell, who told you to find me in Valentine?”

“No one,” said Mary, a little spurned. “No one would talk to me. Except for that horrible Miss Grimshaw, kicked me right off the property. But I overhead John talking to Abigail when I went inside the house, about how you would be here. I took a train from Rhodes. I was coming anyway, I swear. I'm headed back west.”

“Jesus,” said Arthur. The poker game kicked up again. Outside the wind started blowing, whooshing through the trees and the buildings, blowing hats off peoples' heads.

Mary Beth got out of the booth then. She was feeling nauseous all of a sudden, and she wanted to get out of the bar. “I gotta—I gotta get some air,” she said.

But Arthur grabbed her arm. He lowered his voice. "This ain't right," he said. "Wait."

“I'm sorry,” said Mary, gathering herself up, as a bird with her plumage. “I interrupted. It was not my place.”

“No, it really wasn’t,” said Arthur. He looked back to Mary Beth. “I’m coming with you. Just let me grab my things.”

“It’s okay,” she said, half-smiling and flustered. “I’m just…I’m gonna go take a walk to the church. I need a minute. Arthur—It’s fine. Just." She leaned in, shaking her head. "Handle this, okay? And come meet me when you’re done.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“I know.”

She left before he could say anything else. She looked at Mary sympathetically, but she seemed kind of fragile about it, said nothing. Then she was gone.

Arthur sighed, profoundly after that. A man had started up playing the piano—a new song he didn’t recognize, and it was all mixing with the sounds of the gambling, and this annoyed him. Everything annoyed him. He was pissed off, pinching his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “Mary, what the hell.”

“I had to know,” she said. “Please forgive me, Arthur. I saw you with her in St. Denis a bunch of weeks ago, and then at Shady Belle, I heard you was engaged?"

“You came over here, and you talked to her?” said Arthur, ignoring her question. “Why would you do that? You don’t know her. You don’t know what you’re meddling in. Talk to me if you must, not Mary Beth.”

“I asked if you two was together. That’s all.”

“That’s all it takes,” he said. He looked at her, resigned. “Mary, this ain’t your business.”

“I know,” she said.

“I thought you heard me in St. Denis. I thought we was done with these…games. It's over.”

“I changed my mind.”

"You can't change your mind," he said. "Ain't nothing to change it to. Over is over. You had your chance."

"Please, Arthur. Just listen."

"This claim you keep laying to me," he said, lighting a cigarette. He smoked, absentminded. "It's out of hand, Mary. I ain’t your man no more. I ain’t your fool. It's been seven years since I gave you that ring, and you turned me down. You chose somebody else.”

She looked away. “Are you gonna marry her, Arthur?"

“Yes.”

She said nothing.

“The answer is yes, Mary. You came all the way here to find out. I ain’t gonna lie to you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry you interfered," he said, waving the smoke out from between them, "or sorry that I have moved on, exactly as I said I was gonna try to do, months ago?”

“Both,” she said. “I should never have come here.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” He put the cigarette out on the table top, gathered his map, rolled it up beneath his arm. He placed his hat on top of his head. “Now I am sorry, Mary,” he said. "But things is different now. I must go."

“I know,” she said, looking at him with that long face. “Oh, Arthur.”

“What is it?” 

“I’m happy for you,” she said.

He sighed at this, this old fashioned facade of hers. “No, you ain’t,” he said, shrugging. “But you know what, Mary? You don't have to be. It don't matter. You and me—that's broken, and it was broken for a long time before St. Denis. You and me, it was never gonna work. You know it, and I do, too.”

“Why does it work with her?” she said. “With her, you’re different?”

“A little,” he said, humoring her. “I’m older. I’m…done with a lot of what’s gone on in my life, letting go of things I couldn’t before. But to be honest, Mary, I don’t know why it works. It just does. It ain't all just me either that's different. It's her, too. That’s all I got.”

She looked down at the floor. She had started crying. She took a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and blotted her eyes. “I’m so very sorry, Arthur,” she said. “I didn't mean to interfere with your happiness. I’m a foolish woman."

"You ain’t foolish, Mary. And I'll be fine. But you gotta get out of here, understand?"

"Please apologize to Mary Beth for me.”

“I will,” he said. “You know she’s real nice. I’m sure she’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Goodbye, Arthur.” She pushed passed him toward the door.

“Hold on,” he said.

She stopped, looked over her shoulder.

“Please take care of yourself, Mary.”

She looked away.

“I mean it,” he went on, lowered his voice. “Take Jamie, and get far away from that godforsaken father of yours.”

“Don't do this, Arthur.”

“You was probably right to leave me all those years ago,” he said, ignoring her. “I was what you wanted, but never what you needed. I’m still an outlaw. I run with outlaws, and I live like an outlaw. It’s all true. But in the end, that father of yours still ain’t nothing but poison. He manipulates you, tries to control you. Trust me, I know the type. He’ll ruin your life, Mary. And regardless of what’s happened between us, I’ve known you a long time. I care about what happens to you. Don’t live a life you regret. Forget about him. Forget about me. Forget about...all this. This is the past. That’s something I’ve…figured out lately. You gotta go forward, Mary. Move on, and don’t look back.”

She was standing real straight, her hands clasped around that pocketbook in front of her. She was looking down at the floor again. She wore very smart boots, very nice and well-maintained leather boots. She nodded once, crisply. “I’ll…think about it,” she said, real small. She looked up at him one last time. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

“Goodbye,” he said. “Mary.”

 

After that, Arthur found Mary Beth exactly where she said she’d be, waiting at the church. She was sitting in a pew in the last row. There were a couple of other people in there as well, all with the same downtrodden but hopeful looks on their faces. The men had removed their hats. They looked like decent men, farmers and ranchers, dressed in their humble overalls and jeans, and they were just there, taking communion with the savior of their souls. He took his hat off to be more like them, and he went and sat down next to Mary Beth. Right when he did, she smiled.

“I really didn't see that one coming,” he said. “I was very clear with her in St. Denis. I’m sorry, Mary Beth.”

“It’s okay,” she said.

“No, it ain’t.”

“For the record,” said Mary Beth. “I thought she was perfectly nice. Maybe a little sad, definitely unwise. But I know you two got a long history. She still loves you. I can’t blame her.”

“I know it’s prime camp gossip, but that—that’s been over for a long time, Mary Beth. I promise you.”

“I know,” she said.

He looked up then, to the top of the room. There was a modest altar, made of heavy oak and a woman in a sensible brown dress playing a hymn on the pipe organ. And there were these beautiful flags and things hanging from the ceiling and the walls—colorful depictions of the Bible and all of its odd glories. He didn’t know much of the vocabulary, but he still sort of got what it all meant in his heart. There were pictures of doves and rainbows, the good Lord holding out his hand to the weak.

“Arthur, I think I’m pregnant,” said Mary Beth, out of nowhere, very composed. She was looking down at their hands, touching.

Arthur felt suddenly disoriented, as if he'd heard wrong. He stopped looking at the woman and the organ, the pretty flags. He sat up to look at her, and he turned her face so she was looking at him, too. “You sure?” he said.

She sort of smiled and shrugged. “I think so,” she said. “I mean, no I don’t know for sure. But a lot of the signs are there.”

“What kind of signs?”

“I’m late—my period, I mean. Almost two whole weeks now. On the ride here, I was nauseous a lot. I feel…sorta tired. Abigail said these was the signs.”

“Is this why you’ve been so quiet? You're pregnant?”

She nodded. “I’m real sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, exhaling.

“It was stupid,” she said. “I should've told you right away.”

“Why didn’t you? We both knew there was a chance.”

“Because,” she said, looking back down at their hands. He was holding hers real tight now. “I just—I know what you been through. I know what this means to you. What it means to me, and what it means for us. I wanted to wait until I was just...absolutely certain.”

“I get it, but it seems like you’re pretty certain.”

“That’s the thing,” she said. “When I saw Mary there, and she was so...sad and alone—something clicked. All at once. And I knew. I don’t know why. But that’s why I just, I had to get out of there. I ain't threatened by no Mary Linton, Arthur. I trust you. I just thought I was gonna throw up.”

Arthur was overcome, as usual uprooted by her forward nature. He turned all the way toward her in the pew, gathering up both her hands in his now. Hers were so small. You could forget but for these perfect moments. The organ played. It played a song he actually knew—something about a little light, letting it shine. He could see Mary Beth was scared. “Okay,” he said, holding her hands real tight, getting real close. He smiled, because that is what it all came to, for him. In the end. Relief. Joy. Amidst everything, he was just so goddam relieved, and so goddam happy. “We’re gonna do this, Mary Beth," he said. "I’m—I’m beside myself. But it’s gonna be okay.”

“I know,” she said. She was crying now, just a little, but it wasn't sad crying. “I’m real happy, Arthur. I’m just nervous. I don’t know what’s coming.”

”Me neither,” he said. "I'm by your side, okay?"

She went into his embrace. He held her there for a little while, contemplating his salvation.

”What you wanna do, now?” he said.

”What do you mean?”

”I mean, you wanna hang around, go back? Just tell me.”

“I wanna go to Hamish’s now,” she said, wiping her face. He offered her his sleeve. She only smiled. “As planned. Maybe we could do some fishing.”

He put some of the hair behind her ear. She looked very tired. “You sure?” he said. “We could just go the Winterson’s. We’re already pretty close. We can stay as long as you want. Lawrence, he’s a doctor. Maybe he can put your mind at ease.”

She pressed her face into his neck. He could feel her eyelashes, wet on his skin. “My mind is okay,” she said. “I wanna see Hamish. Who knows the next time we’ll be up that way?”

Arthur sighed, pulled away so he could look at her. He knew she was right, though his instincts told him to stay put. She was pretty and puffy from crying. “Okay,” he said. “But you just—you gotta tell me, if you don’t feel right, or if you need to rest.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

“I know you will,” he said. “But just—tell me if you’re not, okay?”

She seemed to find this mighty endearing. “Okay.”

Arthur looked around then, exhaling. He put his arm around Mary Beth and just sat there, feeling things. There were more people in the church now than there had been before. There was a man up in the front, too, wearing white robes with a golden sash, opening a big, pretty Bible at the altar. It seemed a service was about to begin. He thought of Reverend Swanson and all of the ways life can go so wrong for so many people. He thought of Mary, waiting alone at the train station and all that they had endured and lost together. The organ stopped and started again, playing another hymn Arthur was unfamiliar with, but it was still very beautiful. The congregation stood up and sang along. Arthur and Mary Beth stayed for a little while, listening, but then, just before the people all sat down again, they decided it was time to go and snuck out the back.

They then got on their horses, and they rode. They went steady all the way until they made it to the pretty guts of the Cumberland Forest, and though Arthur was unwilling to push too hard, they still made decent time. Mary Beth was enchanted, just as he thought she'd be. She wanted to bring a whole load of fruit to Hamish Sinclair's so she could bake a pie. She picked a bunch of funny looking gooseberries along the mountain streams, as well as wild strawberries and dewberries. She piled them all up in her skirts and then put them in a canvas rucksack affixed to her horse.

“All these weird berries is a rare find in one place,” she said, her bare hands pruning the bushes while he built their fire, built their tent. “I don't think you can pick a gooseberry anywhere else, or so I read in a book once.” They prepared some of the leftover venison for dinner. Mary Beth decorated it with herbs and made a sauce with some of the berries. When it was too late to stay outside any longer, they crawled into the tent together and she wanted him to read more poetry. This time, she had a different book with her—John Keats. She had remembered what he said on their last trip up north, and so she borrowed it from Hosea. Together they sat, and Arthur read from _Ode on a Grecian Urn_ , a poem he had used to enjoy in his more youthful years but could no longer decode—for it eluded him. She just wanted it in his voice. It comforted her. That’s what she said. “You have such a good, comforting voice, Arthur. You should always read aloud.” He thought it was kind of a funny compliment. But he would take it from her.

At some point, Mary Beth kissed him, and she got on top of him and they worked one another out of their clothes and made love in the moonlight so bright, it lit through the worn spots of Hamish Sinclair's old canvas tent. Arthur knew he needed to get a new one of his own, very soon. Especially now. They finished and fell asleep close to one another. It had been some days since they’d touched. He ran his hand through her hair, against the freckled skin of her back. He had missed her. She slept hard, just as she had the night before, and the night before that. Now that he knew the truth, they could rest. 

But he had a hard time falling asleep that night. The poem had seeped into his bones for some reason, making him feel stupefied. Beauty is truth, truth beauty. He reread it fifty times by candlelight. What the hell did it mean? He thought Dutch might know. But where was Dutch? What was he doing? This was a whole other situation. Arthur just watched over Mary Beth's sleeping body as a kind of hawk after that, suddenly haunted by all he could not understand, by design.

 

Meanwhile, Dutch was alone, back in Lemoyne, riding. The night after everyone left, he and the Count had traveled north a little ways, and he robbed a homestead where he stole several garments from the upstairs wardrobe and bottles of booze. He didn't need anything of unique value in these parts, just a means to help him look unassuming. A simpleton farmer, if you will. He rubbed mud into the Count's coat so that he did not stand out so brilliantly against the great, grassy plains and green valleys of the terrain, and then in Strawberry, he bribed a tip off the clerk at the post office, learning of a stage hauling several barrels of oil from the refineries of the Heartlands all the way down to Blackwater. He camped out two nights in the hills at the edge of New Austin, waiting for it to pass through the canyons below. He did not have many thoughts. He did not occupy his mind with books or music. He sharpened his knife and the only thing whispering through his brain was his satisfaction upon living off the land all alone, as he had done a thousand times before but had not done in some time. When the wagon finally appeared, the moon was high and tight, like a fist in the sky. He took out the driver and his companion at range with a rifle he’d stolen off one of the dead at Lone Mule. The two guards on horseback he then faced off with his revolvers and won easily. They did not know who they were dealing with.

Upon securing the oil wagon, Dutch rode it up through Big Valley, and he camped another couple nights in the lavender fields that made him think of Wyoming. He had found Arthur in Wyoming. A blot-on-the-town no good teenage con artist with a penchant for cheating cards the likes of which Dutch had never seen. He found Annabelle in Wyoming, a couple years later, conning industry men with her wiles and her charm, and so much of his adult life he had spent wandering the wide open prairie of Wyoming. How he dreamed of getting back there, even if it meant dying first. He went to sleep in the fields dreaming of the old days and Annabelle’s yellow dresses. He did not think of Molly. He didn’t want her anymore. Admitting this to himself took a great deal of abandon because it meant that he had given up on something he may have once loved. He drove the oil wagon up to Hanging Dog Ranch at midnight on the seventh day. While Arthur and Mary Beth slept in Valentine, their bodies safe and knitted together in the sheets, Dutch set the wagon loose right into the heart of the O'Driscoll gang's hideout, horses wailing. And when several men came out to see what was going on, he lit a stick of dynamite from his cover behind a nearby tree and pitched it into the wagon with a quiet precision. It exploded on impact, igniting the oil and taking a whole motherfucking load of O’Driscolls with it. He killed a lot of them that night, and he watched the ranch burn. Then he drank a third of a bottle of brandy and rode away, back toward Shady Belle, as fast as the Count could carry him. This was now.

At some point, Dutch had become cleansed of his right mind. He knew he could not possibly have killed them all and yet he let them hear his voice.  _The king is dead, motherfuckers,_ he'd said as he lit bottles of booze on fire and tossed them into the inferno.  _The king is dead, and the new king has arrived._

What was he bringing down upon himself and his found family? He didn't know. He just didn't fucking know. Not anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END PART II


	29. Amethyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love what you have and you'll have more love  
> You're not dying  
> Everyone knows you're going to love  
> Though there's still no cure for crying
> 
> -Regina Spektor, "[Firewood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgMutAOEQ5I)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Part III: American Pastoral**

That night, Hosea just had a feeling. Dutch had been gone now, almost five days past the rest of them, and it was very early morning—pre-dawn, the sky purple, and there was a chill on the breeze, like something coming down from the north. Sadie and Charles were still in St. Denis. Arthur and Mary Beth were in Valentine. The swamps were full of moaning all around.

Hosea got up and put on his boots and his hat. He went outside to where the wind was coming through. It felt like thunderstorms, even as the sky was clear. Bill was passed out drunk behind the fountain, snoring like an idiot, his face black and blue from a tussle with Micah the night before. Micah irritated Hosea. He did not respect animals, nor did he respect women. He was full of venom and hubris. He deserved to die.

Hosea went out to the perimeter. He looked around. He found Karen leaning against a tree with her shotgun, smoking a cigarette.

“Hello, Karen,” he said.

She straightened up off that tree, offered him a smoke. He declined. “It’s been quieter than death out here,” she said. “Maybe too quiet.”

“How are you doing?” he said, fussing with his sleeves. He rolled them up past his forearms.

“Can’t complain,” she said. “Bored as hell.”

“All that grisly business with Sean,” said Hosea. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it. I got the sense the two of you were somewhat close.”

She sighed. “You’re just like all them others,” she said, smoking, looking off into the trees. “You, Arthur, Mary Beth. Always with the concern.”

“It’s good to know that people care about you,” he said. “Isn’t it? Even if we are a little annoying.”

She found this amusing, dropped the cigarette and stamped it out with the toe of her boot. “You got me there, old man.”

Hosea laughed. “Any visitors of late?” he said. “I’ve been a little cooped up. All this humidity, the swamp air. It makes me tired.”

“Just that god awful Mary Linton,” said Karen.

“Mary?” said Hosea. “That’s rich. I thought Arthur ended all that nonsense for good, months ago.”

“He did,” said Karen. “But apparently she heard he was getting on with somebody else, came here to piss on her territory or…something. Who fuckin knows with that feline.”

“Well, I’m sure everything’s fine,” said Hosea. “Mary was always a little like that. With the drama and so forth. I think as a younger man, Arthur found himself sort of lost to the cycle. The push and pull, it can be like an addiction.”

“Yeah well, men are masochistic morons if you ask me.”

“That as well,” said Hosea, smiling. He sighed. He surveyed the woods. The tupelos grew so tall, they were like great, undead arms reaching out of the earth.

“Everything okay?” said Karen.

“Everything’s fine,” said Hosea. “I’m gonna go, walk a little further, toward the road.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“No bother,” he said. “I’ll be back in a flash.”

“Okay.”

He went ahead, picking through the swamps. The grass was wet and and spongy. His lungs felt the same. He tried to think back to a time that he had not been sick. He could no longer remember what it was like. In a way, that was better. He hacked into his sleeve, wiped his mouth, looked around. It was right on the edge of light. He had a feeling. It was not a bad feeling. It was just a feeling. He’d felt it before. But not in many years.

When he got to the road, he saw the thing he had been expecting, the object, the feeling. It was Dutch, idling out near the fence, asleep facedown on his horse. The scene was picturesque. The morning light came in hazy, glittering off the metals on his jacket, on the Count’s saddle and his bit. The horse shuffled around as if it knew instinctively not to move. Dutch was very still aside from his breathing.

“Dutch,” said Hosea. He approached, shook Dutch hard by the shoulders. “Jesus Christ. Dutch. Wake up, son.”

Dutch came to. He sat straight up and shook out his head. He looked around as if he had no idea where he was. He was dirty and unkempt and dressed in somebody else’s clothes. He looked as if he’d been living on the streets. He’d been sweating, too, and the hair over his ears was starting to curl. “Hosea?” he said, confused. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yes, you moron,” said Hosea. “Bring that thing into camp.”

“I thought—” He looked around. “I thought I might’ve been followed.”

“Well I don’t see anybody. Let’s go.”

“Is Arthur here?”

“Arthur is in Valentine, with Mary Beth. On your orders.”

Dutch cleared his throat, nodded. “Oh,” he said, a little lost. “Okay, good.” He picked up the reins. He moved at a slow trot, toward Shady Belle, Hosea at his side.

He hitched up his horse. He stumbled a little. He seemed not to have eaten in at least a day. It was near morning by now, the sun cracking into the sky bit by bit, the roosters awake. Hosea made Dutch a cup of coffee, pumped some water from the well. Some of the women had started to stir—like Tilly and Abigail. Mr. Pearson was already awake, stretching and tanning an old Pronghorn hide and making it a suitable rug or table cover. Hosea and Dutch went and sat in the gazebo where it was they could be incredibly alone.

“Where have you been, Dutch?” said Hosea, lighting a cigarette. The smoke couldn’t have been good for him, but it seemed to dry things out, which felt good. “How much trouble you been causing out there?”

Dutch shook his head. He was hunched over with his elbows on his knees, peering into his cup of coffee but not drinking. “Colm is dead.”

“I heard,” said Hosea. “I saw.”

“I think—I think I did a bad thing, Hosea. A real bad thing.”

"Tell me what you did,” said Hosea, smoking. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Dutch sat back, ran a hand through his hair. He took a deep breath. “I hit Hanging Dog Ranch, with dynamite. There may have been survivors.”

“Why would you do that, Dutch?”

“I—I don’t know,” he said, losing his grip. “I was just so. Angry.” He clenched one of his fists, unclenched and studied his knuckles. “Colm threatened Mary Beth. He tried to—he would have violated and killed her if I had not been there.”

“So you killed Colm,” said Hosea. “Good. I’m proud of you. But why Hanging Dog, Dutch? We've already got enough bad blood brewing. You're bringing down more?”     

“It wasn’t enough.”

“Colm wasn’t enough?”

“No.”

Hosea sighed. He flicked the cigarette. Somewhere nearby, Cane barked and tipped over a bucket. Abigail swore and threw a frying pan at him, missing by several inches. John laughed. "Nice try, babe." She told him to shut the fuck up. 

“Dutch,” said Hosea, leaning in. They'd both been distracted by the interaction. “Dutch." He snapped his fingers.

Dutch blinked. "What?"

"You don’t seem well," said Hosea. "What's the matter?”

“I am not well,” said Dutch, straightening his sleeves. “I keep—having these dreams. Nightmares. I can’t fucking sleep.”

“Nightmares about what?”

“About her,” he said. “All about her. Hanging from that goddam tree. Buried in Cheyenne. Coming back from the dead. This place is—it’s…pressing me, Hosea.”

“Annabelle’s been dead for over ten years, Dutch,” said Hosea. “Her and the baby. I know it destroyed you for a long time, but what’s bringing this on again?”

“I don’t know,” said Dutch, shaking his head over and over. He took a sip of his coffee, finally. “I just do not know.”

“What do you know?”

“I know that seeing Mary Beth in danger, that kicked something over inside me.”

“Because she reminds you of Annabelle?" said Hosea. "She reminds me of Annabelle. Something about the freckles, the speed.”

Dutch studied him, angrily, but he became very quickly defeated and hung his head. “We need to get the hell out of here,” he said, nodding aggressively to himself. “This place is not safe no more.”

“It never really was,” said Hosea. “We’ve survived scarier places.”

“Have we?” said Dutch, looking him in the eye.

The question shook Hosea. There was no good answer. “Where would you like to go?” said Hosea. “Keep pushing east?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought the plan was to head back west after all this nonsense died down with Blackwater,” said Hosea. “Or are we still fixated on Tahiti?”

“The plan?” said Dutch. “My plan—my plans have changed.”

“I think we’re getting closer, Dutch,” said Hosea. “I think—if we head up north of the Cumberland Forest, maybe get into the mountains for a while, up near the Indian Reservation in Ambarino—we can survive there, all of us, hunting and foraging, sending the occasional carriage down to Valentine or Emerald Station for supplies. Not enough civilization to draw the law. We could send a couple good men back to Blackwater for the money—Charles, perhaps. With Sadie. Nobody knows her there. They bring back the money, and we get the hell outta here.”

“You think we’d be safer up in the mountains?” said Dutch. “All of us—this entire brood?”

“Yes, I do,” said Hosea. “It'd be pretty boring for a while, but there ain’t no Pinkertons in the mountains. Once we get the money back, we can head north. Actually head north--to Canada maybe.”

Dutch squeezed his eyes shut like he had a headache. “It sounds goddam crazy.”

“Crazier than holing up in a haunted house in the dregs of Lemoyne while our fearless leader slowly loses his mind?” said Hosea. “I don’t think so. I think Arthur would agree.”

Dutch gave him a long, lazy look. He seemed unwilling to argue. “How is Kieran.”

“Kieran is fine,” said Hosea. “A little beat up, but he’s healing.”

“Has anyone been to St. Denis since we left, other than Sadie and Charles? Trelawny is waiting on my cue.”

“Is that the poker game on the river boat?”

“It is.”

“I thought we could send Arthur on that job,” said Hosea, lighting a match off his boot. He lit another cigarette and smoked, casually. “It seems his sort of gig. Gambling, play-acting. He looks the role. He could bring Mary Beth again. I hear she’s a pretty good honey pot.”

"Should you be smoking so goddam much, considering your...condition?" said Dutch, staring at him.

Hosea smiled. "I think you've got enough to worry about, Dutch. I can handle myself."

Dutch leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Arthur will never bring Mary Beth on a river boat full of armed guards," he said. “Not if there’s robbing involved. Too much uncertainty. You know that, Hosea.”

“Hmm,” said Hosea. “I suppose you’re probably right. We can…renegotiate perhaps. No need for robbing if we win the pot. I'll talk to Strauss, see if he has any ideas.”

“What’s the word on that bank job?” said Dutch.

“Nothing good yet. I’ll let you know.”

Dutch leaned back, hung his head off the back of the chair and made a loud noise of exasperation. “What have I done?”

“You mean with the O’Driscolls?”

“The O’Driscolls,” said Dutch. “The goddam money, in Blackwater.”

“If this is about the money, then I'll tell you what you've done. You listened to Micah, when you should have been listening to me.”

“Shut up, Hosea.”

Hosea ignored this. “You should have been listening to me, and you should have been listening to Arthur. Micah, he's a goddam derelict. He has no code, no honor, no goddam smarts for this work. We should've cut him loose after he got Arthur mixed up in that god awful massacre in Strawberry, and you know it."

"That was a fluke, Hosea."

"It was part of a pattern," said Hosea. "You need to see things clearly, Dutch. Me and Arthur, we're not doubting you. We’re trying to help you. We love you. Micah, he's just--he's just a dog." He smoked.

Dutch squeezed his eyes shut. “Fucking Arthur,” he whispered.

“What about Arthur.”

“I asked him to give me a month, Hosea. A month has now nearly passed. He will hold me to it.”

“Then you gotta let him go.”

Flexing his jaw, Dutch poured the coffee out of the mug, onto the dirty floor. He stood up, dusted off his pants, ran a hand over his thickening beard. “I need a wash,” he said. “And I need to sleep in a goddam bed. We can reconvene in a few hours. When will Arthur and fair Mary Beth be returning to us here at Shady Belle?”

“Another week, at least,” said Hosea. “Now get out of here, and go to sleep. When you wake up I wanna go to St. Denis.”

“St. Denis?” said Dutch. “Whatever for?”

"To scope a couple things out, talk to Trelawny, and to get some respite at the saloon. You need to clear your head, Dutch.”

Dutch groaned. “Fine.” Then he waved him off and disappeared from the gazebo. Hosea heard Molly fussing over him somewhere on the way to the house. Dutch would hardly even humor her anymore.

 

Arthur and Mary Beth spent four days with Hamish up at O’Creagh’s Run. He went out fishing in the mornings and Mary Beth said she felt like being indoors. She made dinner each night and also two berry pies that she fired in the stove and let cool on the windowsill. She told him she felt cleansed by this—these wholesome activities, and Arthur would go out in the evenings to hunt with Hamish and then he would come back, and the house would smell very good and it would be very warm, and he was thankful.

It seemed she was getting more tired every day now. It worried him, but she reassured him that mostly she felt okay—she just was running out of steam a little faster than usual. Arthur felt compelled to take care of her in big ways, and it was existential to the point where he’d be out on those hunting excursions with Hamish, and he’d sit quietly and smoke and stare through the scope on his rifle, and he would agonize over how to handle the future, and it would make him forget where he was. A big part of him wanted to scoop her up and ride them as far north as he could, never look back. Going back to Shady Belle now felt like a sentence to his death, and her death by proxy. It felt like he was stifling them both. Arthur had made a very hard choice and he could no longer go back to the way it was before. You gotta be loyal to what matters—that was what he had decided and the wisdom upon which he had advised John. Even still, they had made a promise to return, as they both found themselves tangled in the muck of their van der Linde roots. It was not so easy, for either of them. It was so many loved ones they’d be leaving behind in the swamps.

Even still, Arthur craved action.

After Eliza, Arthur grew deeply conscious of his proximity to forging a bloodline—children of his own to keep moving through the world after he was dead. He practiced extreme discipline with Mary, even as he loved her desperately. She had wanted his children, and she made that clear, but he wanted marriage first. He had been through all that other nonsense. He had made a mistake that ruined lives, and now, he wanted to make a promise, and for her to make him a promise in return, so that they could start something real, something good. But Mary was fickle and afraid of initiating a future with him. She loved him, but she was noncommittal. She seemed to like that he was this ne’er do well, as it directly interfered with her controlling father’s wishes, but simply marrying Arthur for love would not do.

Arthur now realized that part of why she wanted to get pregnant so badly was because it would have made the decision for her. If she were to get pregnant with his child, she’d have no choice but to marry him, and her shit daddy would have no choice but to accept. But Arthur didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be a consequence. He wouldn’t give her a child out of wedlock and at some point, this became the beginning of the end. Because she wouldn’t say yes. She would choose his baby, but she would not choose him. He was glad it was over. He couldn’t see anything good having come from such a fucked up arrangement as that.

Loving Mary Beth was a surprise, he thought. After Mary, he had all but stopped pursuing women. He rarely entertained their advances, as he assumed that as long as he was who he was, it would always be the same. But Mary Beth wasn’t looking for somebody to save her or to remove her from one bad situation and into another. Like him, she was just bored and lonely, and they found themselves thrown together under tough times. Talking to one another revealed that they both cared about things like books and art, and even if Arthur did not show off this part of himself, she knew it existed, and it enchanted her. He had played dumb a long time, but whenever he was hanging out with Mary Beth, dumb was not an option anymore. He had to be himself simply to keep up, and he appreciated this. He appreciated her and how she loved him despite who he was, where he came from. It helped they had some in common. Two busted umbrellas. But they managed. They were managing.

Their last night at Hamish Sinclair’s, they had a lively dinner of venison with a very nice blueberry sauce, and afterward, they had huckleberry pie and Mary Beth made her delicious whiskey tea. She took only a little, become woozy and tired from it, and her head drooped. She rested her chin in her hands as she sat, trying to listen to the men talk about…whatever it was they were saying. Something about the politics of civilization—a conversation she would have otherwise enjoyed. Arthur noticed her losing her grip and put his hand on her knee. This brightened her up a little, but she yawned and her eyes were glassy.

“You look about ready to hit the hay,” he said to her. He smiled. “Come on, let’s go.”

“It’s okay,” said Mary Beth. She patted his hand and smoothed out her skirt. “You boys stay up and chat. It ain’t even that late. I can get to sleep all on my lonesome.”

“You sure?” said Arthur.

“Of course,” she said. “I been getting to sleep on my lonesome since I was a kid.” She got up. She kissed him on the forehead. “I’ll feel better in the morning.”

“We’ll try to keep it down, my lady,” said Hamish

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m used to noise when I’m sleeping. Once I’m out, I’m like a log.”

Hamish laughed.

Arthur said goodnight to her then and let his hand drag to the edge of her skirt as she walked away. She disappeared up the ladder, and before long the lantern was dark, and she was most certainly asleep.

Once she was gone, Hamish gave Arthur a sort of long and thoughtful look. He took a big drink of his tea. “She ain’t really been much of her lively self in the evenings, has she?” he said. “Is she pregnant or something?”

Arthur stopped in the middle of drinking and coughed.

“You okay?” said Hamish.

“Not really,” said Arthur. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He’d dropped a little tea on his shirt, swore, tried shaking it out a little. “I’m just a little on edge.”

“You been like that for four days.”

“I have not.”

“She is pregnant, isn’t she?”

Arthur put away the handkerchief and gave him a look. “Yes.”

Hamish smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, quickly overjoyed. “Why didn’t you say so?” he said. “That’s wonderful news.”

Arthur sighed and felt himself get a little warm. He said, “Thank you,” and then he took another drink and Hamish held his glass up for a toast.

“How are you feeling?” said Hamish.

“How am I feeling?” said Arthur. “Well. I’m not sure, but I find myself rightly terrified most moments in the day.”

Hamish found this amusing. “Yes, well I’m sure that’s to be expected. But there’s nothing to fear, son. That’s just life. Don’t be afraid.”

Arthur cleared his throat. He set the cup down. It was small. His hands were big. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

”Is there something specific that’s putting you in edge? To do with Mary Beth? Is everything okay?”

”Everything's okay,” said Arthur, scrubbing his chin. “It’s just—things ain't real copacetic right now, in our lives."

"How so?"

Arthur cleared his throat. He took a long drink. The dregs from the tea were floating around in the water. "Do you remember, Hamish, when we first met you? We said we was wanderers?”

“I do," said Hamish.

"Well,” said Arthur, taking a deep breath, turning the cup in his hands. “We lied about that.”

”You lied about what?”

”About being wanderers. Well, we didn’t outright lie. We is wanderers, of a sort. We're outlaws, Hamish. We came from out west.”

“Outlaws?”

“That’s right,” said Arthur. “Or, it’s mostly right. I’m the outlaw. Mary Beth, she—well she’s just been running with my gang. Fell in with us back in Kansas City a few years ago, mostly for protection. Anyway, when we first met you, we wasn’t married. We still ain’t married. I mean, we’re engaged to be married now, and she’s pregnant, but at the time, we was just friends. We went on that hunting trip, because one of our comrades died, and we was sad, and we was craving respite. We got caught in that storm, and we just thought—we knew that being married would make us appear more upstanding than we was. So we lied.”

Hamish sighed, watching Arthur closely. He got up to refill the whiskey and the tea from the kettle. He topped Arthur off as well. Then he sat back down and took a drink. “Thank you for telling me the truth, son,” he said.

"I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “But it really was just the material things. Everything else, our intentions. It’s all been honest. We ain’t…well, she ain’t bad people. That much is for sure.”

“I get it,” said Hamish. “You don’t need to explain anymore. But now, I need to be honest.”

Arthur blinked. “Sure.”

“I knew right away that you wasn’t being entirely forthcoming on your enterprise, Mr. Morgan—It is Mr. Morgan, correct?”

 "Yes,” said Arthur. “My name is Arthur Morgan. And what are you talking about?”

Hamish nodded. “I mean, you gotta know, Arthur Morgan, you don’t got no…typical look about you. You’re easy to spot to the discerning eye. You’re big, you’re rough and tough as hell around the edges.”

Real conscious of his own damn body then, Arthur shifted in his chair. “And?”

“And it’s not a bad thing, but it is…fairly clear. That you’re a sort of...a rugged type. An outlaw, sure, whatever you wanna call it. And I must say, the fact you’re all trussed up with such fine and expensive artillery ain’t doing you no favors either. Only a gunslinger slings such beautiful guns, son.”

“So, you know,” said Arthur. “Yet you accommodate us anyway.”

“Bah.” Hamish waved him off, settled back in his chair. “You and Mary Beth, you were in a bad spot. And like I said that night, I know a good man when I meet one. You may not think you're a good man, but it really ain't for you to decide.”

Arthur shrugged. “I been hearing that sort of thing a lot lately.”

“One thing though,” said Hamish, sipping his tea.

“Yeah?”

"It does surprise me that the two of you ain’t really married.”

“What?”

“You _seem_ married,” said Hamish. “You seemed married when I first met you. I believed that you was a married couple. You’re telling me now you was just friends?”

“Yes, sir,” said Arthur. “Good friends. But it’s funny you say that. The first time she kissed me was actually…it was right up there. In your loft. That night, you gave me some advice. It really stuck. I think it might be the reason I was able to…open up to her eventually. Let her in, for real.”

Hamish smiled in a self-satisfied sort of way. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

“I got—I got a lot of skeletons. In my closet, Hamish,” he said, nervous. “Mary Beth, she knows them well. But they haunt me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this ain’t my first go at fatherhood.” He took a drink. “I had a child with another woman years ago, a son, when I was pretty young. It was an accident, and I tried to do right by her, but in the end, my lifestyle got in the way, and I wasn’t there, and she and the boy was robbed, and they was killed. I lost them both. I never thought I’d recover from that.”

“Jesus, Arthur,” said Hamish. He put down his cup and put his hand on Arthur’s forearm. Arthur studied it there. He was still not terribly used to casual touch. “That’s a terrible hand to be dealt. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur. “It’s okay. Mary Beth, she’s helped me a lot, in terms of working through it. But even if I say I’m getting past it, I’m still full of fear. Fear that I will fail her. And now she’s pregnant. I need to be strong for her, but I don’t know what to do, and I suppose—I suppose that’s why I’m so on edge.”

Hamish took a deep breath. He removed his hand and took another long drink. He stopped to glance out the window where the night was clear and full of crickets and coyotes, bird noises. “You want my honest to goodness advice?” said Hamish. “On what I think you should do?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Yes, I do.”

“You said you was engaged. Why ain’t you married?”

Arthur was staring at the table, getting lost in the wood grain but the question was on point and caught him off guard. “I don’t know.”

“Well there’s your answer,” said Hamish.

“What answer?”

“Marry her,” he said. “She’s pregnant. Put a ring on her finger, and marry her as soon as possible. Make a promise to her, Mr. Morgan, and make a promise to yourself. I think that’ll really clarify some things for you. It’ll help you feel like you’re putting her first. It’ll make things real.”

Arthur glanced up at to the loft as if expecting Mary Beth might be listening in. Of course, she was not. She was not the type. She couldn’t eavesdrop on him. She would have said something by now. He looked down at his hands. He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t got a ring,” he said, feeling defeated. “I keep meaning to get ahold of one, but we ain’t had a lot time to get to the city. And I want it to be something proper. I don’t wanna buy her something from a fence, something that’s been sullied, something stolen or looted.”

“Is that it?” said Hamish. “Just because you ain’t got a ring? What about a church, or a minister? You got one of those?”

Arthur nodded. “Sort of. I ain’t got no church, but I do got a…wayward minister. He’s a bit of a reprobate, ironically, but he’s got good in his heart. It’s just that he’s back in Lemoyne. I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna marry her down there. It don’t feel right. That’s part of my hesitance. It's where we live for now, but it ain’t us. It ain’t a home.”

“Then send for him,” said Hamish. “Ride out to Annesburg, post a letter, or pay extra for a messenger, have them travel by train. It’d be a lot faster. Didn’t you say you was headed down to Emerald Station next? That you got friends there who own a nice hotel?”

“Yes,” said Arthur.

“Have him meet you. Do it there, right deep in the pretty green hills of the Heartlands.”

Arthur was just staring at him. “Marry her in Emerald Station.”     

“Why not?” said Hamish. “She’ll be over the moon. I’ll even come along, if you ask nicely.”

Arthur thought this was funny, but then he leaned back in his chair, and he peered down into his cup, which was almost empty, and he felt something intensify inside him. He thought about John and Abigail and Jack, how they’d already be there. He wondered how long it would take for a messenger to get down to Shady Belle. “Well, I don’t got a ring," he said, "but I suppose—it’s okay. We don’t need rings. Rings is just metal. That can wait.”

Hamish thought on this for a second. He polished off his tea and got up off his chair, very slowly. Arthur stood to help him to his feet and asked him what he was doing, but Hamish would not answer. He reached down to steady his prosthetic, and then he whisked Arthur aside and hobbled by himself over to the hope chest at the foot of his bed. “I think I can help you out,” he said. He got down on knee, searched until he found a little blue velvet box, and then he came back to the kitchen and sat down, and then he set the velvet box down in the center of the table.

Arthur sat, speechless. “Hamish, I don’t know—”

“Take a look,” said Hamish. “Tell me if you think it’s something she’d like. If not, I won’t be offended, I swear.”

Arthur eyeballed him, closely. He hesitated, but then he picked up the little box like Hamish told him and opened it up. Inside was a pretty little gold ring with a purple stone. He felt overcome. “It’s beautiful,” he said. 

“It was my wife's,” said Hamish. “I want to give it you, and you can give it to Mary Beth.”

Arthur closed the little box and set it back down on the table right away. “No,” he said. “I can’t accept it. Thank you, sir, but no.”

“Why not?” said Hamish.

“Because, it’s—it’s too important. I ain't worthy. That there’s a piece of your history, your life.”

“I got all I need right here,” he said, pointing to his chest. “That ring ain’t doing any good stashed away in a hope chest at the end of my bedroll. I’m an old man, Arthur. I only got so much time left on this earth. You and Mary Beth, you been bringing me joy in the evenings. I don't give a shit what you do for a living. We’ve both killed people, Mr. Morgan. I am grateful for you and your company. Not a lot of young people out there who want to spend their days with an old, ruined vet like me. Let me do right by you. Let me give you this ring. Mary Beth is a swell gal. She deserves it, and it makes me happy, thinking that it might bring her joy. I’ll keep my memories, don’t you worry. Because it's like you said." He shrugged. "It's just metal, Mr. Morgan."

Arthur looked at the little velvet box on the table. He picked it up again. He sort of weighed it in his hands, then he looked inside once more. It looked small enough, in size. He couldn’t be sure till she tried it on, but certainly a goldsmith could resize it for them if need be. The little stone was pretty and uncut, just like she was. He shook his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Just take it.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur, resolved. He closed the box. He tucked it into his pocket. “No one has ever given me a gift like this before.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Hamish. He got up again, to go refill his cup, but the kettle was empty. So he opted for straight bourbon instead.

“What sort of stone is it?” said Arthur, glancing out the window. “Purple, like that. It looks like…quartz maybe?”

“It is a sort of quartz, yes,” said Hamish, coming back to the table. “It’s an amethyst.”

“Amethyst?” said Arthur. “Ain’t that from one of them Greek myths? It sounds familiar.”

“It has healing properties,” said Hamish, a little canny. He smiled and sipped his bourbon. “It’s supposed to cleanse you of all your anxieties.”

Arthur laughed to himself. “Well I should wear it then.”

“You think she’ll like it?” said Hamish.

Arthur glanced back up to the loft where she slept, very quiet. He said, "Yes, sir. I do." Then he asked for some more bourbon. The moon was very high. It was not too late at all.      


	30. Don't go it alone.

Sadie and Charles were sitting in the saloon of St. Denis, upstairs in a quiet corner, counting out their money on Colm O’Driscoll’s bounty. It was $3,000. The Sheriff had wanted him alive, said there would have been big Pinkerton money in it for them, too, if he’d been available for questioning. It was a fools errand, though. Sadie had been quiet ever since they got to the bar, chain-smoking. Charles smoked a lot, too. Ashes fell all over the stacks of bills as they counted them, sipping their bourbon. At some point, when the number was confirmed, Sadie put her head in her hands and dipped the cigarette in a crystal ash tray.  Charles took out a little tin of tobacco and some papers and went about rolling a few more cigarettes. He sprinkled in some of the dried marijuana plant, too, but only in those he rolled for himself. He left it out of Sadie’s, as she did not prefer its effects. He hadn’t really spent a lot of time with Sadie before. She impressed him.

“You okay?” he said after a little while, sealing the last cigarette with his tongue.

“This fuckin bounty,” she said. He handed her one of the cigarettes. She studied it. “I feel cheated, real bad. I ain’t sure what I’m aiming for.”

“You wanted to kill Colm.” He lit the cigarette for her, then lit his own. “Understandable.”

Sadie exhaled. “Look, I’m not saying I could have, or that it was even my place. Dutch had his own bone to pick. I just—” She hung her head. She seemed exhausted. “I ain’t finished, Charles. Those fuckers ruined my life.”

Charles sighed. He began stacking the bills, storing them neatly in his pack. “If it’s revenge you want, you’ll get it,” he said. “I just don’t know if it’ll help.”

“Oh, it’ll help,” said Sadie.

“If you say so.”

She took a long drag and looked around. She wore some sort of make-up on her eyes that had smudged underneath, making her look sort of feral. “Sometimes I think about Arthur,” she said. “And you. You’re both good men. I still wonder what the hell it is you’re doing here.”

“Doing where.”

“Doing with Dutch,” she said. “He’s insane. You know that, right?”

“I know it ain’t perfect,” said Charles, “but it’s better than being alone.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve made a real friend in Arthur," said Charles. "I don’t know. Dutch may be eccentric, but he gave me a home. Gave me brothers. The thought of going back to a lonely existence—it makes me sad. Besides, we’ve all got our own bone to pick, Sadie.”

She looked at him, real long and glassy. “I guess you’re probably right,” she said.

“And anyway,” said Charles, closing his pack, gathering some of the ashes off the table and into his hand, “Arthur and Mary Beth, they’re getting out. John and Abigail, too. They wanna go north, soon. I might see about going with them.”

“Seriously?” said Sadie. “Where they headed?”

“I think Arthur said Wisconsin,” he said. “It’s close to Canada. I’m not sure what they have planned, but knowing Arthur, he’ll wanna live honest.”

“Shit,” said Sadie, ashing the cigarette. “I can’t believe Dutch is gonna let him go.”

Charles took a long drink, maybe too much too fast. His throat burned. He cleared his throat. “Whether Dutch is _letting_ him go,” he said, “I have no idea. But I get the sense that Arthur is pretty serious. And Mary Beth, she is, too.”

“You know when I first got in with—you all,” said Sadie, “Mary Beth and Abigail were some of the first people to actually talk to me. Everyone else was sort of…afraid of me. Nobody likes a widow. It’s too goddam sad, even in this fuckin life. But they seemed to sympathize with what I was going through. They…helped me.” She took a long drink. She never really looked Charles in the eye as she spoke. She just looked down at the table where she was drawing invisible shapes on the wood. “And Arthur, he’s like you, and Dutch. You all treat me like a person. Not like no girl. I used to think some of the women around camp, they was just whores, looking for hand-outs. Not that I’m judging no dove. I’m just saying. I come to see I was wrong. They’re real strong, in their own ways. They’re stable. And then there’s me. The fuckin monster among them.” She finished her smoke, put it out on the surface of the table. “I can’t do this anymore, Charles.”

“You wanna hunt some O’Driscolls?” said Charles, catching her drift. “I’ll go with you. You’re not a monster, Sadie, but you’ll become one if you’re not careful. It ain’t the killing that’ll do it either. It’s the loneliness.”

Sadie looked up at him, full of dark curiosity. “Is that why you’re here?” she said. “Because you was becoming a monster?”

Charles nodded. “We’ve all been there, Sadie. We just don’t all make it to the other side.”

Sometimes, Sadie missed Jake so much, she could feel her skin itching, like her body was turning inside-out. She was just so goddam sick of feeling sad. She smoked.

  

_My dearest Hosea,_

_I have decided that it is time for me to ante up and marry Mary Beth. She is pregnant, and in times of such turbulence all around, it has become clear that I do not wish to wait any longer. I have sent for Reverend Swanson to meet us at a bed and breakfast near Emerald Ranch called Wintersons'—as long as he is cleaned up enough to undertake the task, of course. John, Abigail, and the boy will already be there, having agreed to meet us for a couple of nights, and we would greatly love for you and Dutch to meet us there as well._

_Please do not tell anyone else in the camp. We regret that they cannot all be there as witnesses, but we wish to keep a low profile, for obvious reasons. Tell Dutch that this does not negate our arrangement, and that as long as things stay in general control, Mary Beth and I, while still eager to set forth on our own soon, will stay as long as we must to help create a clear passage for the gang out of trouble. You can count on us._

_Mary Beth is doing well, though she is somewhat more tired than usual. We will make our ride to Emerald Station over a period of two days. If you would meet us there on the 30th, then we will wait for you. Having you both there would mean a lot, as you’re like a couple of fathers to us. Please consider my request._

_With love,_

_Arthur_

Abigail and John were riding north to Emerald Ranch, headed through Scarlet Meadows. Jack was on John’s horse with him, and at one point demanded that John stop so that he could count the points on a great, elegant buck that had sprung across the path.

“I thought I saw twelve,” said Jack.

“Jesus,” said John, pulling back on the reins, trying to see after the buck. It was gone though. “That’s real good, son.” He scratched his head. “You can count to twelve?”

“Yep,” said Jack. “Uncle Arthur helps me with my numbers sometimes.”

John sighed, put the horse back to a trot. “Of course he does.”

“This is real pretty country up here,” said Abigail, breathless, falling a little behind. “Refreshing. I really need to get out more.”

“It was nice of Arthur,” said John. “Inviting us. Don’t you think?”

“It was,” said Abigail. “I’m glad you two seem to be getting on these days.”

“Me, too.”

“And we’re all gonna be on our best behavior at this kind stranger’s house,” she continued. “Am I heard?”

“Of course, mama,” said Jack. “I even made a necklace for the doctor’s wife, like the one I made you. Arthur said he was a doctor, right?”

Abigail laughed. “Yes, he did. And that’s real kind, Jack. Though it ain’t really you I’m talking to.”

John gave her a look. “What do you think I’m gonna do?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Accidentally use the wrong fork? Shoot the poor bastard?”

“Just try to keep a goddam lid on your foul mouth for once,” she said.

“ _My_ foul mouth?” said John. He started to laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“Excuse me?”

He picked up the pace, ignoring her question. “Let’s get a move on,” he said. “I wanna get there before the sun goes down.”

Abigail sighed, entirely distracted by the blue sky. “Sounds fine. I just—I like looking at the scenery is all.”

“I know you do,” said John, glancing back at her, watching her watch the sky. He began dreaming then, as he led the way. It was unlike him to fantasize but he thought maybe, just maybe this was the new beginning he had been working for. The way to giving her and the boy—all of them—a better life.

 

They got to the Wintersons' at about half past six. They hitched up away from the road near some trees and John thought he heard hounds in the distance. He helped both Jack and Abigail down from the horses.

“Hmm,” said Abigail. “I thought you said Arthur and Mary Beth would be here by now. I don't see Sarah or Watson.”

“Maybe they’re hitched up in the stables?” said John.

“Maybe,” said Abigail, dusting off her dress. “Or maybe they ain’t here yet. Grab that valise now, off the saddle. It’s got everything.”

“Can do,” said John.

They went up the lawn, all grown with pretty wildflowers. It was sort of feral greenery, but lovely. As something you might see in a painting. They went up to the porch, and John knocked on the door as politely as he knew how.

After a minute or so, the door opened, and there was a nice-looking man standing there with glasses and a shotgun down by his side. He must have been in his early fifties. “Can I help you?” he said.

“Uh, yes,” said John. He held up his hands on instinct, and Abigail tugged them back down again, in a corrective but gracious manner. John was not used to polite society. He removed his hat. “My name is uh, John Marston. This is my wife Abigail, and our boy Jack. We was just—we’re here because—uh, well.” He looked at Abigail, who nodded, then he looked back to the man. “Arthur Morgan invited us?”

Right away the man acknowledged. He hung up his shotgun next to the door. He smiled. “Yes, right. The Marstons,” he said. “We’ve been expecting you. Come on in.” He stepped aside so they could pass through the threshold and into the house. “We’ve got your rooms all prepared.”

“Rooms?” said John, looking around, taking inventory of all the homey trappings and the bookshelves and the warm, yellow light from the lanterns. “We only need one.”

“Oh, well, we have a room with a few small beds and a toy box, designated for children. We assumed you’d want your boy to stay there. We have a separate room, just for you and your wife.”

“Separate rooms?” said Abigail. “Well, that does sound nice. Thank you, sir.”

“It’s no problem,” said the man. He held out his hand then, to John. “My name is Lawrence Winterson. I own this establishment.”

John shook his hand, and then Abigail shook his hand, and then Jack. “Nice to meet you, sir. This place is…it’s really something.”

“Well, thank you. My wife keeps a lovely home.”

“I just—I don’t mean to sound like an idiot," said John, "but two rooms—how much is that gonna run extra?”

“What do you mean?” said Lawrence.

“Well, we’re paying for the rooms, of course,” said John. “I was just wondering.”

“Oh, it’s on us,” said Lawrence. “The second room, I mean. On account of special circumstances.”

“Special circumstances?” said Abigail. “What special circumstances.”

“The wedding, of course.”

“Wedding?” said John.

A little woman came out then from a side room, about the same age, maybe a little younger than Lawrence. She held in her hands a large swath of white threaded cotton. She smiled.

“Oh, this is my wife,” said Lawrence. “Lizette.”

“You may call me Liz,” she said with her French accent. She curtsied. “Bonsoir.”

“Bonsoir,” said Abigail, curtsying right back. “This—your home is mighty nice.”

“Thank you,” said Lizette. Then she nodded at Jack. “Bonsoir, young man.”

“Uh, bonsoir,” said Jack. He bowed. Then he reached into his pocket. “I made you this.” He presented the necklace—a little daisy chain.

Lizette was overcome. She took the necklace and put it on right away. “Ah, merci. I am undeserving.”

“They’re daisies,” said Jack.

She patted him on the head.

“Well,” said John, a little hurried. “This is all—well. It’s all well and good.” He then turned back to Lawrence. “But can we get back to this wedding? Whose wedding?”

“Oh, of course,” said Lawrence, cleaning his glasses on the flap of his shirt. “I guess I just assumed you knew.”

“You assumed I knew what.”

“Mr. Morgan and Miss Gaskill, they’re getting married here, in just a few days.”

“They’re getting _married_?” said Abigail, all pretty and lit. “Here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Lawrence. “We’re actually expecting a few more guests. A Reverend, and a few men, friend’s of Arthur’s, who’s names I—I have written down here somewhere, but they’re lost on me now.”

“Dutch, Hosea, and Hamish,” said Lizette.

“Yes. Thank you, mon amour. Dutch, Hosea, and Hamish. Do you know them?”

“Who the hell is Hamish?” said Abigail.

John gave her a look. “Language, Abbie.”

She blushed. “I mean—wow. This is a surprise.”

“Well, now you know,” said Lawrence, glancing around. “Arthur and Mary Beth are running a little late for some undisclosed reasons. I believe they’re up near O'Creagh's Run and will be with us at some point tomorrow evening.”

“Uncle Arthur and Aunt Mary Beth are getting married?” said Jack.

“Yeah,” said John. “They are.”

“Wow. That’s wonderful.”

Abigail hugged him to her thigh. “Yes, it is you sweet child. Now run off and find you room.”

“Okay, mama.”

Lawrence directed him up the stairs and down a hallway to the left.

“He is very articulate, no?” said Lizette to Abigail. She was so tiny. Her hair was knotted in curls all piled atop her head. “For a boy of his age, I mean.”

“Yes, he’s whip smart,” said Abigail. “He’s learning to read.”

“How advanced.”

“Can I show you both to your room?” said Lawrence. “It’s upstairs, just one door down from the boy’s.”

“That would be great,” said John. “Thank you, sir. And thank you, ma’am.”

“It is our pleasure,” said Lizette.

 

When they got up to their room, they stood in the doorway for a moment, assessing the beauty of it all. It was very simple: a white bed with a pretty bedskirt and heavy linen curtains that hung in a very traditional fashion. Abigail had always desired a bedskirt, like the kinds they had in hotels. It was like a pretty dream, like being a cloud. She went in to touch the curtains and look out the window. The glass was very clean. When she turned back around, she saw John, standing very pensive in the doorway. He took a step inside and closed the door, then he dropped the bag on the floor and sat down on the bed.

“What is it?” she said.

He sat with his back to her, facing the door. She saw his back rise and fall in a deep breath. “I just—” He hung his head low. He had his elbows resting on his knees. He had worn a nice jacket, the nicest one he owned. “Why didn’t he tell me?” he said.

Abigail shrugged, even though he couldn’t see her. “You talking about Arthur?”

“Yeah,” said John. He took off his gloves, one by one, set them on the white bedspread. She walked around the bed so she could see him. He went on, but he didn’t look up at her. “I mean, I thought we was friends, Abigail. Brothers. Going north together—becoming a family. But he didn’t tell me they was engaged, and now I’m hearing about their wedding secondhand from a goddam stranger?”

“He ain’t a stranger to Arthur.”

“You know what I mean,” said John. “It's just that sometimes I’m worried I fucked up so much, so bad, that I’ll never get it back—his trust. His forgiveness. And now, so much of what he has, it’s outside the gang. It’s new people. It’s where he’s headed. He’s starting…new.”

Abigail sighed. She went and sat next to him on the bed, folding her hands in her lap. “It means a lot to you, don’t it. To be a part of his life.”

“Yes,” said John.

“John, you known Arthur a long time,” she said. “Things has been…difficult between you. But he wouldn’t’ve asked you to go north with him if he didn’t mean it. And he may be the strong, silent type, but he ain’t a perfect man neither. He’s done his share of wrong, and he knows it. He's trying his best, just like you. Give it time.”

“You’re right,” said John, nodding. “I know you’re right.”

“And anyway,” said Abigail. “I think I know why he didn’t tell you. About the wedding.”

He looked up from his hands. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, before they left, Mary Beth told me she thought she might be pregnant.”

“She’s pregnant?”

Abigail nodded. “Now, shotgunning like this? She probably told Arthur, and he just…he pulled the trigger. It’s like him.”

John sighed. He hadn’t thought of this, but it seemed fair. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he said. “Especially after Eliza, Mary. All that drama. He wouldn’t wanna wait too long if he could help it.”

“See? It ain’t so bad.”

John nodded. “Thanks, Abbie.”

“You’re welcome.” She patted him on the knee. A moment went by, as if it were nothing. As if it were old times, in Denver where they met.

She let her hand linger out of some hopeful feeling inside. He took it, gentle. It was as she had wanted but not what she expected. She let him hold her hand, studying her knuckles as if he had forgotten what they looked like. It was real nice. Then he laced their fingers together, firmly, and he looked right at her. He had this way. John wasn't the most complex man she'd ever known, but he was true. His eyes were very dark, like these molten trees. He had his hair knotted back so she could see his whole face—the mean scars that brought back scary memories. But he was brave, and he wore them bravely. He was looking at her with feeling. She was hesitant, but eventually, she offered him the same.

“What’s the matter?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said. He put a little bit of the hair behind her ear. She flinched at first. She wasn't used to it. But she was actually glad. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she said. "It's fine."

“It’s just—you’re smart, Abbie," he said. "Real smart. You know that? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She blushed hard, glanced down at her boots. Somewhere outside the window, you could hear a couple of mourning doves, singing their sad song. “Oh, please.”

“I’m serious,” he said, still staring. She looked back, and he held here eyes there. “Shit. I’m so sorry, Abigail.”

“For what?"

“For everything,” he said. "Everything."

She didn’t know what they were doing all of a sudden. “John—”

“Wait,” he said. He shifted toward her. Getting closer. His voice was soft. “Wait. Just let me finish.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, still holding her hand, now in both of his. “For leaving you, alone. All them years ago. I’m sorry for getting drunk and doing stupid shit when I was supposed to be being a father to Jack. I done you wrong, but I just—you’ve stuck by me. You’re here. You’re giving me a second chance, and I don’t know why.”

She was staring at him now, listening to the doves outside. A wind came through as well and shook the window panes. She felt like crying. “It’s because I love you, John Marston,” she said. “Why the hell else would I be here?”

She could hear his breathing. She could smell his skin. She had not been close to him like this in some time. She waited.

Finally, he spoke. “We haven't kissed in so long,” he said, like he was reading her mind. “So long, I’ve almost forgotten what it was. In the beginning, when it was new, and it was…simple. I know it ain’t new no more, and I know it ain’t simple. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying?”

“That I love you, too," he said. "I never stopped."

“Oh, John—”

“Can I kiss you?” he said. “If you say no, that's okay, Abbie. I'll understand. I can wait.”

She was hanging by a thread by now. It had been a gamble, but John Marston was good at gambling. Their breathing was all shaky, like a couple of teenagers. She nodded, surprising them both. “Okay,” she said. “Just a kiss.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” he said.

So he leaned in, and he kissed her, and outside the doves were quiet, as if they knew the time had come.

 

Earlier that day, Arthur and Mary Beth were packing up their horses, getting ready to head southwest toward Emerald Ranch. Hamish went inside, and Mary Beth was standing over by the lake’s edge, tossing rocks into the water. He went to her and smiled.

“I’m gonna miss it,” she said. “That’s all. I like it here.”

“Yeah. I know you do,” he said. Then he took a deep breath and held her hand. “Come on. Walk with me.”

“Where we goin?”

“Not far. Don’t worry.”

They walked along the lake, around it for a little ways. The sun made it look silvery. There were geese and ducks and some deer drinking out on the other side. When they got far enough that they were very alone, they stopped and Mary Beth was quiet, full of appreciation for the beauty in the world around her. “What’s going on, Arthur?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said. “Or, well. I got something for you.”

This shifted her attention. She turned to him. “You do?” 

“I do.” He sighed. He reached into his pocket, produced the little velvet box. He gave it to her.

“What’s this?” she said, turning it in her hands.

“It’s a ring,” said Arthur.

She looked at him in some combination of surprise and excitement. “A ring?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Now, if you don’t like it, or you want something different, it’s okay. We can go straight off, buy you what you want after the wedding.”

“The wedding?” she said.

He nodded, very calm. “At the Wintersons,'’” he said. “I hope it’s okay. I’ve already sent for Reverend Swanson and Dutch and Hosea to meet us there. Just them three, plus the Marstons. We can have a party later, with everyone. But for now, I—after talking to Hamish last night, I realized that there’s no good reason to wait. Just no good reason.”

After a moment of what felt like floating, Mary Beth flew forward in her way, held him tightly. She had to be up on her tip-toes. Her hair tickled his chin and nose. “Oh, Arthur.”

He let out a mighty sigh and thanked the lord.

She was crying a little. She dropped back down so she could look at him, wiped her eyes.

"Don't cry," he said.

"It ain't bad," she said. “I promise. These is tears of joy. But Arthur, when did you have the time to find a post office?” 

He found this amusing. “I woke up at about four this morning. You was sleeping like a rock, Mary Beth. I rode to Annesburg and paid a messenger double to make sure it gets to Shady Belle by tomorrow morning. Then, I rode back.”

“Arthur,” she said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Now, would you please look at the ring and tell me if it’s okay?”

“Oh, right,” she said. Off in the distance a flock of geese picked up and took off into the air. The ducks went after. She opened the box and looked at the ring, the pretty purple stone, so dainty and royal. She took it out and slipped it onto her finger. It was a touch big, but it would do for the time. She had heard of a trick where she could tie a piece of string to the inside of the band and make it more snug till they could get to a goldsmith and have it sized. “It’s beautiful, Arthur.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Where did you find it?”

“Hamish,” he said. “I tried to discourage him, but he would not take no for an answer.”

This seemed to touch Mary Beth deeply.

He took the empty velvet box and tucked it back into his pocket. Then he took both her hands in his and looked at her. The day was so pretty in the sunlight, next to the silvery lake. “You and me,” he said. “Forever. You okay with that?”

She said yes. He put his arm around her in his casual way. Then they looked out past the lake and to Hamish’s house, where Mary Beth saw Hamish himself, saddling up his own pretty horse named Buell in a way that suggested he was coming with them. It made her happy. The whole thing made her so happy. Then she thought to herself that this was probably the last time she’d be up in this beautiful place for a long while. Despite it, she felt free. She looked up at Arthur as he seemed to be looking out at all of that truth out there, in nature. She’d never even known this place existed till he showed her.


	31. The Wayward Minister

_My Dearest Reverend,_

_Mary Beth and I have decided to get married, and we would be most thankful if you would do us the honor of performing the service. It is to be held up at the Winterson Bed and Breakfast near Emerald Ranch as soon as possible. If you would prefer not to ride, I have included $5 in this envelope, which should be enough to buy you a train ticket from St. Denis. We will wait for you until June 30th. If you have not arrived by then, we will travel to the church in Valentine, no hard feelings._

_I ain’t much of a man for the Bible, sir, but I do remember one verse you gave to me many a year ago, from John I believe: “He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.” Something like that. The folks who own the Wintersons’ establishment are real nice, and they will not judge you nor any of us. I know that, should you choose to come, you will be as clean as you can be. I have nothing but faith in you, sir._

_I have similarly sent for Dutch and Hosea, but seeing as we are all wanted men in a great deal of shit these days, the rest of the gang must be left behind. We hope to see you soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Arthur_

 

Swanson had been lying in the weeds at Shady Belle when he received the letter.

“You alive?” said Karen, nudging him with the toe of her boot. Of course, she meant it in a colloquial way, but the question, to Reverend Swanson, was one of deeply profound meaning. “Hello?”

“Yes,” he said, sitting straight up, coming out of an existential nightmare in which bugs crawled all over and inside of his body “Miss Jones.”

“Got a visitor.” She walked away.

Standing there now was a young man wearing a messenger’s cap. He could have sworn that it was Arthur Morgan twenty years ago. “You Reverend Swanson?” the boy said.

Swanson rubbed his eyes. It was not Arthur. It was not twenty years ago. He had a splitting headache. “Yes, I’m Swanson,” he said. He took off his hat. He stood slowly, one foot at a time and dusted off his pants at the knees. “How can I help you?”

“I got a letter here for you on express delivery from Mr. Arthur Morgan.”

“Arthur?”

“Yes, mister. Big man with a pretty horse? Looked like a gunslinger if you ask me, but I ain’t got no interest in his work. No, sir. He paid me double to see I get this here letter to you by this very morning, and I’d appreciate it, mister, if, next time you talk to him, you could confirm my success.”

“What?” said the Reverend. The kid seemed to be speaking a hundred miles per hour. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

The boy with the letter nodded. He was tall and lean but in an awkward sort of way, and he smoked a cigarette as he handed over the envelope. He wore simple clothing that suggested he was of a lower class family, miners probably. Annesburg no doubt. He did very much remind Swanson of Arthur when Arthur was real young—just a kind of blot-on-the-town but good intentioned, maybe a little more put together around the edges than Arthur ever was but the same softness in the eyes. He carried with him a leather messenger bag, and inside of it was a book by Mark Twain, though Swanson could not see which. It warmed his heart that the boy was somehow literate, and he wished to save his soul but he had his own soul needed saving first, and in the meantime, could do nothing but tip the boy generously with a handful of coins from his pocket and send him on his way.

“Thanks, mister,” said the boy. “The man Arthur Morgan said he was not expecting your reply, so I’ll be leaving now. Do you know where I can find a Hosea Matthews?”

“Yes,” said the Reverend. “Hosea—he should be in St. Denis. Check the saloon. The fancy one. He’s, uh, in his late fifties. White hair. He’ll be with a somewhat younger, singular looking man in black.”

“Thanks a lot.”

”What is this about? Young man? Do you know?”

“I got no idea. You have a good day, mister.”

“Oh. You, too.”

The boy got back on his horse and rode away.

Upon reading Arthur’s letter, Swanson wiped his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket, picked up his valise, which contained his Bible and all of his earthly belongings and set off walking through the bayou to clear his brain. He had done this many times. Some people were afraid of this place, but he knew that if you just left the gators alone, they would leave you alone, and he was unafraid of night folk, because he knew that should they take his life it was meant to be and karmic retribution for his sins. They were unaware of their own barbarism, thought Swanson. They were just living the life handed to them as any other. He walked all the way to St. Denis. It took several hours.

When he got there, he went to the saloon and bought a bowl of soup and drank water to kill his headache and recuperate. He did not order any whiskey. He then walked through the clean streets to the church where it was less clean, and there were orphans and a couple of Mexican men learning English from a Bible with one of the Brothers on the steps. Swanson had been coming here for some weeks now, visiting with the Mother Superior Sister Calderón. She was providing him guidance as he journeyed toward redemption and sobriety.

He found her inside, sitting at a table in the kitchen, eating lunch alone. The church was otherwise empty aside from a few who sat with their heads down in the pews. Sister Calderón was eating a steak with a fork and knife and just finishing up when he arrived.

“Reverend,” she said, smiling. “Come, join me.”

He sat down at the table across from her, feeling disheveled. The sun came through the simple window overhead, looking like a bright square. “Good afternoon, Sister.” He removed his hat.

“This is a surprise,” she said. “I thought we were meeting tomorrow.”

“I thought so, too,” said Swanson. “But something has come up.”

“Oh?”

He took a deep breath and examined the brim of his hat and the stitching where it was coming apart around the edges. She got up to place her dishes in the sink and to pour him a glass of water. He drank some and looked down at his hands. “I received a letter from a friend today.”

“What is your friend’s name.”

“Arthur. Arthur Morgan.”

She lit up in recognition. “Yes, I know Mr. Morgan. He has donated to the church and done me many favors. He is your friend?”

“Yes,” said Swanson. “I’ve known him a long time. I did not know he was affiliated with you here.”

“We, too, are friends,” she said. “He is trying to atone, like you and me.”

Swanson smiled at this. It brought him joy.

“What did he say in his letter?” said Sister Calderón.

“He said that he is getting married,” said Swanson, “to a girl that has been traveling with us now for some years. She is a very kind young woman, been kinder to me than I believe I deserve. They have both been kinder to me than I believe I deserve. Arthur, he—he saved my life, some months ago when I was at my lowest, most reprehensible point, and now he has asked if I would…officiate them in matrimony. Provide the service. Up in Emerald Ranch, very soon.”

“Mr. Morgan is getting married?” said Sister Calderón. “That is wonderful news. And for him and his beloved to ask you to take part in such a special day, that is a rare blessing.”

“I do agree, Sister,” said Swanson. “I do. But I am afraid. I don’t know that I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To preserve him and his beloved and unite them before the eyes of God. I have been wayward far too long, Sister. I am a bad man. I am unworthy.”

Sister Calderón sighed in her wise way. She placed her hand on his. “Reverend, you are not a bad man.”

He shook his head.

“I know that I cannot make you see that. You must see it for yourself. You know, Mr. Morgan is always saying the same thing to me.  _I am a bad man._ He is working on this, the same as you, and he would not have sent for you if he did not think you were worthy of his cause. It is this way he chooses to communicate your worth to you.”

“I know that’s supposed to make sense,” said the Reverend. “I known Arthur since he was a teenager.”

“I believe you should take this leap,” she said. “Of course, it is up to you. But you should go. That is the clear path. It is a sign! It is your opportunity to confront your fears, confront your God and begin to make amends. To give the gift of love.”

Swanson picked up the cup, swallowed some more of the water. Overhead, the crucifix on the wall seemed very heavy and mundane. A fly was tapping at the window from the inside, searching for escape. “Will you accompany me?” he said. “Sister? I cannot let him down. I am far less likely to do that if—if I am not alone.”

She smiled again, squeezing his hand assuredly. “I will. We will take the train, first thing tomorrow morning.”

They sat some time longer, speaking of Arthur and his beloved, and then of Christ and other mysteries.

        

Hamish rode about half a day behind Arthur and Mary Beth. He wanted to cut over to Moonstone Pond, spend some time in solitude, fishing. He didn’t often make it far from the lake up there on his own. He assured them both that he would be okay.

Now, camping in Ambarino for one night, Mary Beth caught a fish, and Arthur cleaned it up and cooked it for them. The fire made beautiful sparks that went up like little plumes, and the weather was fine.

“I might never get bored of this,” said Mary Beth. She had good color in her cheeks that night. She said she was feeling better. She had a handful of pebbles and was tossing them into the fire one by one. “Camping.”

“I never really knew you liked camping,” said Arthur, frying up the fish. “I always thought you was more of an indoor girl. Before, of course. Could just be the way you seem.”

“Can’t really be an indoor girl when you live most of your life on the run,” said Mary Beth. “Shady Belle might be falling apart but it’s the first warm house I’ve called home in…years.”

Arthur smiled. “I imagine Shady Belle was a beauty in her time.”

“I'm sure she was."

After dinner, they played several games of Hearts. Mary Beth complained that she was no good at Hearts. Arthur wouldn’t let her win though. He was trying to smoke less and had taken up chewing on reeds and sticks and branches instead. This part of him was familiar and it made him seem younger. His hair had grown out now, down to the very tops of his shoulders, and it had gotten lighter being in the southern heat for so many months, blanched from the daylight, and his eye lashes even looked kind of blond. On their final hand, she studied him closely and reached to put one stray lock of hair behind his ear. This made him look at her casually, but then he kept looking at her, chewing that reed, and he grinned and put the loose hair behind her ear, too. “You’re real pretty, you know that?” he said, tossing the reed to the dirt. “I’m sure I’ve told you that a thousand times, but it’s true.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

“When we get married, I don’t want anything to change,” she said. “I just wanna be your wife.”

“Ain’t nothing gonna change,” he said. “Save for maybe our location, eventually. And, well.” He nodded to her tummy—still flat. It wouldn’t grow for a little while yet. “We’ll have company.”

“You’ll still read me poetry?”

He smiled. “Yes, I will.”

“Do you think Dutch will come?” said Mary Beth.

Arthur sighed. He shrugged. “I hope so. I don’t know that it’ll feel the same if he ain’t there.”

“Yeah,” said Mary Beth.

They heard some nightingales, and then a distant loon. The fire blazed and crackled. The sky overhead was so black, and the stars were so clear.

He kissed her, and she took off his hat and grabbed him by the collar. Sometimes, she could still sense his near surprise upon being touched with her reckless abandon. Like he was delayed, and it took him some time to let go, but once he did, it drove him. As a gunslinger, Arthur was full of swagger and aloofness for the craft, but when it came to his personal life, he had been closed for too long, never opening up to anybody, hiding himself so as to never have to apologize to the world for existing. He had a beautiful soul, but few had seen it.

She pushed him onto his back in the weeds, throwing her full weight. She knew she was kind of clumsy in most respects, but it didn’t really stop her. He seemed to like that about her anyway. Like he had to hold her steady. She had him out of his belt and suspenders in what felt like seconds and hiked up her own skirt. He got a desperate grip on her, and she wanted it to go fast, like a freight train. They were out in nature. He stayed beneath her the whole time, talking to her, telling her things in his deep, comforting voice. He was some kind of elegant man. When Arthur finished, his eyes were closed and his head stretched back so she could see the cords and the muscles in his neck. She touched them as he came, and she thought about how long she’d known him as nothing more than a friend and the parts that had changed between them and the parts that had stayed the same.

“Maybe we could go to St. Denis after this,” she said when it was done. They had crawled into their tent now, and he had his arm around her and one of his hands piecing through her hair. “Like on a date.”

“You wanna go on a date with me in St. Denis?” said Arthur, smiling with his eyes closed.

“Sure. We could see one of them moving picture shows.”

“That would be nice.”

“You think Dutch is gonna want us to do something?” she said. She had her hand on his chest, which rose and fell in even fashion. “Didn't you say something about a poker game on a river boat? Seems like it’s time.”

Arthur sighed. She looked up to try and guess what he was thinking.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just don’t really feel like thinking about river boat poker games right now.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be sorry.” He looked at her. “We should go to sleep, Miss Gaskill. I wanna get going early tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said. She reached past him to turn down the lantern. “But it ain’t gonna be Miss Gaskill much longer, remember.” She kissed him on the cheekbone.

Arthur seemed confounded by this, but pleasantly so. “You’re right,” he said.

They both looked up then, as they could hear the wind picking up outside and rustling against their tent. It was only wind, but for some reason, it surprised them. They waited. The wind held steady and then died down and then picked up and held steady agin. They looked back at one another and then nestled in.

“Goodnight, Arthur Morgan," said Mary Beth.

“Goodnight, Miss Gaskill.”

 

“You are a damn cheater, John Marston."

They were sitting around the table with Lawrence and Lizette, playing blackjack for pennies. Jack was already upstairs sleeping. It was a little after nine o’clock.

“That’s a lie,” said John, collecting the pot. “I’ve never once cheated at cards. That was always Arthur’s thing.”

“Oh, please,” said Abigail. “Like he never taught you.”

John laughed at this. “Believe me, he tried. He used to make me sit for hours. Him teaching, me listening. But I wasn’t no good from the start. Just too honest, I guess.”

She shoved him, laughing.

“I think you’re both pretty damn good,” said Lawrence, cleaning his glasses with a delicate yellow handkerchief. “At least you’re giving me a run for my money, and I’m quite good.”

“Not a lot to do but play cards when you’re camping in the wilderness,” said Abigail, straightening her ponytail. “Even the women learn gambling.”

“It’s a valuable skill,” said Lizette, in earnest. “Especially for a woman. Nobody would ever suspect it.”

John gathered up the cards then, his turn to deal. The kettle hissed from the kitchen. Lawrence got up to take it off the fire. He poured the tea and offered a little rum to go with it. They all said yes. “What what was it you said about Arthur?” He was pouring the tea into four neat and pretty porcelain tea cups. They had a very lovely blue filigree. “That cheating cards was  _his thing_?”

“I don’t think he does it much no more,” said John, shuffling, “but when we was younger, like real young, he used to pull the wool over every fool gambler’s eyes in town. A real hustler. He can count cards, memorize the order of a deck, predict when they’ll turn up in a pile, and he also has some sleight of hand.”

“Like magic?” said Lizette.

“Yes, ma’am. It used to be one of his true specialties, always an ace up his sleeve.” John laughed to himself.

Lawrence passed around the tea cups. “It must take a great deal of intelligence to hold the ordering of an entire deck of cards in one’s mind. He sounds formidable.”

“I never thought about it like that,” said John, scratching at the scruff on his chin, “but he always was sort of like that. Smart, you know? He hides it pretty well.”

“Too well,” said Abigail. “It ain’t right. A man shouldn’t have to hide.”

John sighed, started dealing the cards. “No, he shouldn’t.”

“You know, when we first met Arthur,” said Lawrence, sitting down and sipping his tea, “he and Mary Beth were posing as married grain farmers who had been robbed.”

“No shit,” said John. Abigail cleared her throat, socked him above the knee. “I mean, uh, tell us about that.”

Lawrence smiled. He liked them. They were a very young couple, they tried hard, and their boy was extremely well-behaved. “Well, Mary Beth came to our door flailing, saying her husband had been beaten up and they'd been robbed of their wagon, full of corn. They were looking for a place to stay.”

“Corn?” said John.

“That sounds like Mary Beth’s idea. She plays a pretty good hysterical wife.”

“That, she did,” said Lawrence. “Of course your man Arthur, he’s no  _corn farmer._ I could tell by his guns and his demeanor alone. But like you two, they were charming and polite, and they seemed in love. It’s hard to distrust people like that. Though Arthur did have a gunshot wound—more like a graze in his arm that I stitched up for him. I still am not sure how he got it.”

Abigail was red in the cheeks. She was smiling down into her porcelain cup. The idea of  _seeming in love_ made her both self-conscious but also relieved. “I’m sure it was nothing,” she said. She sipped her tea. “Arthur's a tough specimen, and he's had a lot worse.”

This seemed to concern Lawrence, but Lawrence said nothing.

“So you was in the war?” said John, gesturing to the Union kepi hanging by the door. “Arthur said you was from Illinois. I am, too. Though I don’t really remember it the way I should.”

“Yes,” said Lawrence. “I was born in a city called Rockford.”

"What did you do in the war?" said Abigail.

"I was a medic," said Lawrence, adjusting his glasses. "I was no innocent, but I never saw true battle."

“What you saw might’ve been a fair bit worse than battle,” said Abigail. “Nursing wounds ain’t no picnic.”

Lawrence seemed to find this very interesting. “No, Mrs. Marston. It isn’t.”

She blushed again. “Just Abigail. Please.”

“Have you nursed many wounds, Abigail?” he said. Then he shifted in his seat a little. He seemed pensive. Lizette reached for his hand. He squeezed it once and smiled at her, then he took a long drink of his tea. 

"More than my fair share, I reckon." 

“You said something before, about that. It bothered me.”

“Oh?” she said. She looked at John, mortified, then back at Lawrence. “I—I’m sorry. I didn't mean it—to be a bother—”

“No, no. I didn't mean it like that,” said Lawrence. “I'm very sorry. I just meant—you said that Arthur’s  _had a lot worse_. That’s what bothered me."

"Oh."

"We've looked after them now, a couple times. Him and Mary Beth. They seem okay, but I get the sense they're always running. We care about them. What did you mean by that? What happened to Arthur?”

Abigail felt John taking her hand under the table. She was embarrassed. "I—"

“You should ask him,” said John, stepping in. “He’ll tell you.”

Lawrence smiled, impressed. He nodded. “I’ll do that,” he said. “And I’m very sorry again, Abigail. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you'd done something wrong, or to put you on the spot.”

She looked up at him. He was a very nice man. She was not used to someone being so concerned, and certainly not a stranger. “It’s fine," she said. "I’m just—I don’t like makin a fool of myself. For obvious reasons. Maybe I'm a little too touchy.”

“You’re perfect,” said Lizette. She placed her little palm on Abigail’s cheek. “Do not be so nervous, child.”

“Thank you,” said Abigail. "I appreciate that."

Just then, they heard the rustling of a horse outside. Abigail and John both perked up, glancing at one another. Then they looked at Lawrence who was still deep in thought.

“I thought they wasn’t coming till tomorrow,” said Abigail.

“Perhaps they’re early?” said Lizette.

“Could be,” said Lawrence, surfacing. He pushed back from the table, slowly. He seemed to gather his thoughts, and then he seemed to quickly disengage and went to the door. He picked up his shotgun. They all waited until they heard knocking.

Lawrence cracked the door open, left the chain pulled, his usual approach. John was standing between the front door and the kitchen table, a little like an attack dog. It was just habit. Abigail and Lizette just sat, waiting. “Can I help you?” said Lawrence.

But the voice, right away—it was familiar. “Yes, is this the Winterson establishment?”

“Hosea?” said Abigail. She smiled, got up from the table. “It’s okay. It’s just Hosea.”

Lawrence glanced at her, then back at John, who nodded, then back to the man through the door. “Hosea?” he said.

"That’s me. I’m here for the wedding.”

Lawrence closed the door and dropped the chain. He set his shotgun down on the floor beside the door jamb. Then he opened the door again, all the way this time. Hosea stepped inside, removed his hat. He was alone, and he was a sight to see.

Abigail rushed to him. She hugged him, tight. He smelled like the cold air outside and just like Hosea. “You came,” she said.

“Of course I came,” said Hosea. “You think I’d miss Arthur’s wedding? Where are they?"

"They ain't here yet," said Abigail. "They're coming tomorrow."

"Good."

“Where’s Dutch?” said John. “I thought Arthur sent for you both.”

On the other side of the room, the clock made its low chime. It was ten o’clock. “No Dutch,” said Hosea. He and Abigail parted and he smiled at John, a little strained. “Not this time, son.” Hosea approached Lawrence then, held his hand out in a steadfast, very upright fashion. “Lawrence Winterson, I assume.”

“Yes, sir. You're not the minister, are you?”

“No,” said Hosea, smiling. They shook. “No, I’m just a friend. A very old friend. My name is Hosea Matthews.”

“Well, it’s wonderful to have you, Mr. Matthews. Come in, come in. We’ll show you to your room.”

“Thank you, good sir. The ride was long, and I’m quite tired.”

“Of course.”

Lizette went with them both upstairs. She insisted on turning down the linens for each of her guests. While they were gone, John and Abigail stood by the table where the cards were all scattered about with the abandoned tea cups. They both looked at the cards, and then Abigail looked at John. “What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing,” said John. He seemed pissed off. He went out to the porch, his boots heavy on the wooden floors.

She followed him out, closing the door behind them. It was cooler outside, so she tightened her shawl. He lit a cigarette, gave it to her. Then he lit one for himself. They stood and smoked for a while. She awaited him nervously, wishing she could just read his damn mind. She knew something was wrong.

Eventually, he shook his head and looked down at his hand, holding the cigarette. “Jesus Christ."

"What's wrong?"

"You heard Hosea. _Not this time._ ”

“What?”

“Dutch isn’t coming.  _Not this time._ ”

“Oh," she said, almost relieved. "So what?"

“So, when the hell is Arthur ever gonna get married again?”

Abigail took a long, deep breath. She tossed her cigarette to the wood and stamped it out with the toe of her boot. She was trying to see the reason in it. Truth be told, she didn't hold as much faith in Dutch as those boys did. Hosea, yes. But not Dutch, and she wasn't surprised. “I see what you mean," she said, trying to be kind. "But maybe...maybe he didn’t wanna leave the camp unguarded. Or maybe he was afraid of bringing danger, John. I mean, he ain’t exactly low profile as far as criminals is concerned, and you saw what he did to Colm O'Driscoll. Try not to jump to the worst possible conclusion until we know what's going on, if you can.”

John stepped out to the edge of the porch. It was getting windy. You could see it coming across, blowing the long grasses and hear it rustling through the trees. It seemed to mildly disturb the horses. A lonesome hound wandered across the lawn then. It was a strange sight and it sort of startled Abigail. The hound had big, floppy ears. It went over to sniff at something on the lawn, but it was disinterested in the two of them. It disappeared into the darkness, like a ghost, keeping its watch.

“You think Swanson’ll make it?” said Abigail.

John finished his cigarette, looked back to her. He them seemed to soften. He came over and took her hand again, just for a moment. He looked down at her knuckles. Her bones were delicate. Compared to his, they were like little works of art. “I hope so,” he said.

“If not, we’ll all just go to Valentine,” she said. "They got a nice church there, with plenty of pews."

He smiled. He gave her back her hand. “You always know how to look on the bright side, Abbie.”

She got bashful from this. She really tried. 

       

Meanwhile, Reverend Swanson slept in the church that night back in St. Denis. Sister Calderón had offered him a cot, but he wanted to sleep in the pews where it was cold. He stared up at the ceiling, which was unadorned but beautifully constructed. He had his hands folded together, resting on his chest. He lie very still. He heard many strange noises in the church that night—like mice, and there were bats up in the belfry. It was windy, too, and the wind had come on quickly, and it was blowing against the building, sounding like ghosts, whistling and rattling the window panes. At some point, Swanson found the courage to close his eyes, and to dream. Once, he had been a great minister. He could command entire rooms. Entire congregations. It had been Swanson, in fact, who had counseled Dutch on the art of passionate oration long ago. Of course, Dutch was a different kind of minister, but still. 


	32. Faith, Hope and Love, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (11) When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. (12) For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
> 
> (13) And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
> 
> - _1 Corinthians 13:11-13_

“Dutch,” said Hosea.

They had gone out to fish, as an avenue to talk. They were in a canoe on the Lanahechee. Hosea had got the letter while they were in the saloon, but it was too crowded there, and Dutch was losing his mind. Neither of them was fishing at the moment. Hosea had Arthur’s letter folded in his pocket. Dutch was sitting with his head in his hands, his rod discarded to his side.

“Perhaps Shady Belle,” said Dutch. “Why does that boy make everything so goddam difficult, Hosea.”

“I don’t think that’s his intention.”

“I offered him Shady Belle.”

“Please.”

Dutch placed his hands on either side of the canoe, holding on, and with it, you could see the full brunt of his wingspan. He was shaking his head. “I wanted Shady Belle.”

“It is what it is,” said Hosea. “And unfortunately, with recent developments, Dutch—the O’Driscolls, the Pinkertons. I really think you should…consider staying behind.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re too damn hot right now,” said Hosea. “Arthur doesn’t know about Hanging Dog. He wants you there, but I don’t want us bringing a massacre down on his wedding, Dutch. That would be…far too fitting, given everything we’ve been going through lately. I can’t imagine anything worse.”

“You think I’d bring down a massacre?”

“Maybe,” said Hosea. “Not intentionally, of course. But if somebody were to spot you, follow you. These are innocent people, and it’s just too important. You being there is a big risk.”

Dutch sighed. He looked off into the murky haze of the river. It was morning, still early. “Remind me,” he said. “Who exactly are these innocent people _,_ Hosea?”

“You mean the owners of the B&B?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Winterson is a doctor, that's all I know. Other than that, Arthur doesn’t really say.”

“He’s so goddam trusting.”

“You ought to give him some credit,” said Hosea. “After all these years. He might be good at playing the angry idiot, but he’s smart, Dutch. He’s made far fewer mistakes than you or I, and you know it.”

Dutch gave him a look, cracked his knuckles, placed his hands back onto the canoe, as if he were bracing himself for something—an earthquake. “If I don’t go with you, I don’t want you riding alone.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Take Charles.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

“Then take the damn train.”

“What do you think is gonna happen?”

“You may not have been on that ferry with me, Hosea,” said Dutch, “but there’s men out there—enemies—who know what you look like. Besides, you’re not well.”

“I’m alive,” said Hosea. “I’ll ride fast and quiet. I know how to keep a low profile.”

“If you can keep a low profile, why do you assume that I cannot.”

Hosea said nothing. He picked up his rod, stood and cast his line. “We’ll have a party back at camp,” he said. “Have Pearson and Susan do it up right. It’ll be fun.”

Dutch took a long, deep breath. “We need to get the hell out of here.”

Hosea glanced at him, glad for the change of subject. “You’re telling me.”

“You talk to Trelawny any more about that poker game.”

“I did,” said Hosea, scrubbing his neck. “This morning, before you were awake.”

“And?”

“And he managed to get Arthur a buy-in, but under curious circumstances.”

“Which are.”

“The invitation is for Tacitus Kilgore, and his wife.”

Dutch shook out his head. “His wife? Whatever for?"

“Because that’s who interests Bronte, and Bronte is the one who secured the invitation.”

“Bronte.”

“Mary Beth made quite a splash. I’m not sure that was intended.”

“Not exactly.”

“You still think he won’t take her?” said Hosea. “This really complicates matters. I’d be concerned it was a set-up, but I can’t see the m.o. for that. It’s poker, and Bronte knows that Arthur is an outlaw. Nobody expects an outlaw who can cheat convincingly at cards. They expect robbing and killing and that’s it. And plus, Trelawny said that Bronte just seemed to genuinely like Mary Beth. I can get to work on the backstory, if that’s what’s at stake. I still know a couple of Texas Rangers who owe us, back in Galveston. They can come up with something, put a good name on it. It would be easy. It’s just a matter of convincing Arthur.”

Dutch leaned back and studied him, full of scheming. “What do you mean Bronte  _liked_ Mary Beth.”

“He was taken with her. He thought she was interesting. That’s what these people do, Dutch. They collect interesting people and stick them in a room with other interesting people. It’s a game. They’re like—like museum curators or something.”

 Dutch sighed. “She’s definitely pregnant?”

“That’s what the letter says.”

“We’ll have to talk to him,” he said. “And by we, I mean you. He won’t listen to a goddam word I say anymore.”

“If he cheats the cards, he’ll take the table,” said Hosea. “It’d be like the old days. We’re talking upwards of ten thousand in the pot, Dutch. Maybe more.”

“Talk to him,” said Dutch. He got up too now and cast his line. A whole bunch of pretty little egrets were on the other side of the riverbank, all sunning and standing in a row. “Can I see that letter again?”

“Sure.” Hosea reached into his pocket, handed it over with no question. The atmosphere on that canoe relaxed a little. It was all composed, real quiet. “I know you’re happy for him,” said Hosea, turning the reel. “I know you are, Dutch. We’ll have a party back at Shady Belle. We’ll get the wedding behind us, and then we’ll move forward. Mary Beth is having a baby. It’s a blessing, all of it.”

Dutch was only half-listening, reading the letter again. He held the rod in one hand. The fish were quiet that morning and the air seemed dusty and somehow brown. The sky was full of pollution from St. Denis.

“Did you hear me?” said Hosea.

“Which part.”

“The part about all this being a blessing.”

Dutch folded the letter up and kept it. He focused on his line again, the fish nipping at the surface of the water. “Yes, I heard you,” he said.

“And?”

“And it’s a blessing indeed, Hosea. A blessing indeed.”

Neither of them caught anything that day. When they got off the canoe, they separated. Hosea rode back to Shady Belle to prepare for the trip to Emerald Ranch, and Dutch stayed behind. He sat down on a fallen Tupelo that looked prehistoric, and he rested his elbows on his knees. It was hot, so Dutch knotted his hair off his face and rolled his sleeves up. He took off his vest, and he tossed it into the river.

Dutch sometimes felt as if he were shedding pieces of himself one by one. His money, his gang, his control. He saw in the corner of his eye a beautiful flower then, growing on the side of a nearby tree. It was big and robust, looking like some sort of internal organ growing out in the open. It was an orchid. He had never touched an orchid before, not like this. He walked over to pick it, and then he held it in his hand and admired its mystery. It winked back at him but it was already dying. It had red petals and reminded him of all the women he’d ever loved. It was only three of them and two of them buried, and one of them he didn’t love anymore.

When Dutch had found Mary Beth four years back, her pockets full of rich men’s jewelry in Kansas City, he saw in her traces of Annabelle. Kind of mean and feral when put upon but in her nature, just full of kindness and stories. He knew that it was bullshit. He knew that men were idiot dogs, and any pretty girl between him and his salvation, he would just imprint with the face of the last pretty girl who made him smile. He forgot about her. She became friends with Arthur, and years went by. Molly came along, somewhere back in Colorado, and Dutch fell in love with her, because he fell in love easy, and she made him feel special, and because she liked poetry, and she could write it and then read it in her voice and old country accent that made him soft. She was better than he was. She was what he deserved if he had not lost his daddy and left his mother decades before, entering the life of some rabid, outlaw king. Things had gotten so far away. Dutch’s mother was buried in Blackwater, and all their money from that horrible ferry job was buried in the cemetery right beside her. Molly was lost to him, and Mary Beth was now marrying Arthur, and time had become circular.

Dutch had lost too much and it was making him possessive of all that remained—in violent, ugly ways. Hosea was dying. When Dutch went on and on about getting money and getting free, mostly what that meant to him was proving himself and his ideas, but it also meant getting Hosea somewhere safe, some place where he would not die so soon. He loved Hosea more than he could ever have admitted to himself. He gazed into the heart of the orchid in his hand. He thought about his own mortality. He thought about Arthur. Dutch was envious of Arthur. Not for having Mary Beth where he could not, but for finding peace in a woman, like he once did, and getting to start over right where Dutch had left off. It wasn’t fair. Was it? Why did Arthur get to have the woman he loved, safe as houses, pregnant with his child, not swinging from a tree but marrying him on a stranger’s ranch near Emerald Station? And yet, Dutch would have done anything to preserve them. He was terribly confused. It made him want to hurt somebody. 

He could not miss Arthur’s wedding. That would be bad, he thought, as he stood there at the edge of the swamps, holding a pretty flower in his hand. No matter what Hosea said. That would hurt Arthur, and it would push him away even further than he already was. But every time he disobeyed Hosea, it all kept going rotten. What was he gonna do? He was so full of his ugly pride. He thought about how Arthur—he didn’t have a lot of pride inside him, and this was another thing. There was so little left. It had all gone away long ago with a pretty girl and a little boy who’d got murdered by animals. For a long time, it made Dutch and him the same. But now, Arthur was moving on.

He got on his horse that day, and he tucked the orchid delicately into his saddlebag. He then rode back to St. Denis and tied him up in the stable, paid the hand an extra 50% to keep him watered and in good condition while he was away. He then bought a decent but shoddier horse, a sturdy old Kentucky Saddler and named her Jean.  _Mean Jean_ , he said as he patted her on the flank.  _How I love you, my Mean Jean._ He went to the tailor. He bought new clothes. He changed, and then he had a fine, silver suit jacket tailored to his size with a little give in the chest and shoulders. The lapels were embroidered with a delicate fleur-de-lis, which Dutch knew was symbolic of purity and the holy trinity. He told the tailor he was getting married. The tailor was very happy for him. Dutch was a hair taller than Arthur, but Arthur was bigger than him across the back, and this was about as good as he could remember. It would do. Arthur would look good in the silver, Dutch decided, as his coloring was very gold. Dutch folded up the jacket with his bedroll and rode away from St. Denis wearing a new hat. He hated traveling in costume, but this was his life now. This was what it had come to. He was torn between getting away from it all and getting revenge on those who had pushed him to the edge and it was all terrible.

He was looking at the pattern now, as what had happened with Colm and Mary Beth had loosened something up inside him and made him see. Dutch may have been frayed around the edges, but he was no idiot. If Molly stuck with him, she would only end up dead. He was going to give that orchid to her—a peace offering—and he was going to give her a bunch of money, and he was going to tell her it was over and hope she went away to live a better life, far from him. Then he was going to ride to Emerald Ranch and try to find something hopeful there, if something hopeful existed, or if it was all just disappearing into the belly of the whale. He had to go. He had to find Arthur, remind him of what mattered. He knew Hosea would be angry, but he decided that Hosea was wrong, and that regardless, he did not care.

 

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to wear,” said Arthur. He was leaning against a tree, eating cherries out of his hand, spitting the pits into the weeds. They had stopped in a little grove about twenty miles north of Emerald Station to have some dinner and water the horses. There was a creek nearby with a beaver building a dam. It seemed territorial so they didn’t get too close. “What does a man wear to his wedding?”

"Didn’t you see Hosea get married to Bessie?” said Mary Beth. She was nearby, drawing shapes in the dirt with a long stick. “What did he wear.”

“I don’t remember,” he said. “I was fifteen.”

“That’s so young,” said Mary Beth. “I can’t imagine you being so young.”

Arthur smiled, took off his hat and tossed it to the blanket where they had eaten their lunch. The day was warm. “Be glad you didn’t know me then. You would have hated me, for I was a fool.”

“No way,” she said. She drew a steeple, a sun. “I would have known right away that we was soul mates.”

This warmed his heart. He finished the cherries and went over to her, crouched by her side to see what she was doing. “What are you makin?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Just shapes.”

“That looks like a church.”

“It is a church.”

Overhead, a huge raven pushed off a tree branch and took off into the sky. It made a huge, cawing sound, and it was loud enough they both looked up to see. “It’s nearly dark,” said Arthur. “We should get going.”

“I’m nervous,” said Mary Beth. “When we get there, it’s gonna be all this attention.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Arthur. He was watching her. She looked up at him with her pretty eyes. “Just focus on me.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

Her hair was curly from the heat. She had taken off her sweater, and her sleeveless blouse was sticking a little to her skin. He put some of the hair behind her ear, then some more, and he studied the freckles on her neck, and he leaned forward to kiss them.

When he wanted her, it sometimes took him a moment to remember that he could have her. But he was getting better at that, his confidence returning to him little by little, every day. He kissed her. She kissed him back and things got needful so fast. She moved fast. He laid her down on the blanket, and she asked him to touch her. She said just that.  _Touch me._  So he did. He reached into her skirt and pulled away her underthings, and he touched her, pressing right up against her until she came, making her soft moans that excited him. Then he took off his own belt as she floated back down. He watched her face, ruffled up her skirt around her waist, and then he got inside her, deep.

She sort of squeaked, clutching him. He felt stupid with how good it was. She was incredibly wet, and both of their bodies were sweating in the heat from the day, and it was all so wet, like they couldn’t get close enough. He opened the buttons of her blouse with one hand so he could see and feel everything, and she tugged his shirt back off his shoulders, and everything came away, all as they kissed and fucked in the warmth of the forest. He had not felt this free in so many years, and he knew she’d never had it like this. It went on for a long time, and then at some point, she stopped him, because she wanted to try something different. She was curious. She pushed him back a little, and he guided her onto her hands and knees, and it made him feel very thankful and awed. He pushed all of her hair away and kissed the back of her neck as he glided back into her that way, and she arched with him and said his name. He kissed her shoulder, her ear, pressed his mouth to her skin, holding her tightly to himself with one arm, and she reached up to hold him around the back of his neck as he began again.

It was a slow build to a long end. He near on shuddered as he finished, like he was suddenly freezing cold and emptied of something bad. But then he was warm again. He held onto her. She turned her head and grabbed his face to kiss him. They didn’t talk. They just lowered to the blanket, him wrapped around and still inside, and they stayed puzzled together like that for what felt like a long time.

As the sun went down, they got up to dip in the river, and then they got dressed. Mary Beth didn’t know how it was going to work, with being pregnant—she already felt bloated somehow, like she was starting to show but Arthur said that to him, she looked exactly the same. She still got tired toward the middle of every day, like her body was badly in need of fueling. She ate bread to keep away the feeling of nausea, but in truth, it wasn’t so bad. She had some heightened anxieties. She was worried about being the center of attention. For as playful and free as she was with Arthur, she only showed this part of herself to him and a select few people in the entirety of all time and the world. She was worried about losing him. It was just a big, generic fear. She’d had a couple of dreams that he had died, or that he had never existed at all. She had one dream that she was holding his tiny baby, and she was standing over a huge, deep hole that went so far down it was only blackness. The baby was much smaller than she thought it should be. She was afraid she would drop the baby in the hole. In the dream, Arthur existed, but he was not there. She didn’t know where he was. She couldn’t remember. She had lost him somewhere and became panicked that she would never find him again.

When they rode past Emerald Ranch and were on their way to the Wintersons,' it was half past nine. The sky was long and dark, and the stars were very bright. You could see the whole galaxy, and pillars of smoke from chimneys and little camping sights off in the hills that stacked up toward the horizon. At some point, they were stopped on the road by a man riding up behind them who called out in a strange, deep voice. Arthur stopped them both right away, and he turned around with his hands on the reins. He was squinting into the darkness as the stranger approached on his horse, wearing a hat with a very low brim. Mary Beth idled some ways back.

“Who is that?” she said to Arthur.

“You lost?” said Arthur to the man. He didn’t seem concerned.

“No, son,” said the man. He took off his hat. He rode closer. It was Dutch.

This was a huge surprise. Mary Beth trotted up beside Arthur and became very happy and relieved. “Dutch?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

Arthur laughed, once. Big and deep, amused by his costume. “You old fool. What are you doing out here on a horse like that? Where’s the Count?”

Dutch trotted up, smiling. He was dressed in a modest brown scout jacket, still somehow shiny as can be. “The Count is back in St. Denis, being pampered by an overenthusiastic ranch hand with a bald head and leather chaps. And I am coming to your wedding, you goddam idiot. What the hell else would I be doing in this backwater territory?”

“You’re dressed like a damn messenger boy.”

“This here is called  _keeping a low profile,_ ” said Dutch. “Or so I’m told. I’ll have to show Hosea what I mean. He thinks he left me behind in Lemoyne.”

“What?”

“We need to talk,” said Dutch, steadying his horse. "Not now, later."

“What are we talking about.”

“About some…mistakes I’ve made over the past two weeks. But you should not let that worry you now.” He looked at Mary Beth then, seeming to fill with pride, and he pressed his hat to his heart. “Miss Gaskill. You look lovely as always.”

She blushed. “Thank you.”

“Where is Hosea?” said Arthur.

“About twenty-four hours ahead of me,” said Dutch. “Congratulations, by the way. I hear you’re adding one more to our brood. It is truly a blessing.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur. “It is.”

Dutch nodded and looked around in a suspicious manner. He put the hat back on his head. “I think I rode past the place by accident—this bed and breakfast from your letter. Are we close?”

“Yes,” said Mary Beth. “It’s just a few miles up.”

“You didn’t miss it by much,” said Arthur.

“Very good,” said Dutch, smiling. “I need to stop at the fence. I hate to arrive empty-handed.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur. “For coming.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” said Dutch.

They went along, the pretty nighttime country unfolding all around them, as a postcard.

 

Back at the Wintersons' Abigail was hard at work. She and Lizette were putting together a dress for Mary Beth. Lizette had all the fabric and had got a decent start, and Abigail was there, making the lace fringe at the sleeves and the collar, and also to estimate Mary Beth’s measurements. She’d known her long enough and mended her dresses in the past—it wasn’t so difficult.

Reverend Swanson still had not arrived, but there was time to spare, and nobody was worried yet. John and Hosea were out on the porch that night, smoking, and John was drinking whiskey out of a tin cup. Lawrence had been out there with them earlier but had work to attend to inside, and now it was just the two of them. They were expecting Arthur and Mary Beth now that the sun had gone down. They were watching the tree line.

“I know Arthur talked to you about the business of going north, with him and Mary Beth,” said Hosea. “Have you made any decisions?”

John nodded, blowing out all the smoke from his lungs and feeling cooled considerably by the evening call. It had been a warm day, and he’d spent a lot of it with Jack, running around the property, chasing the hounds and playing some other such games. It had been kind of cleansing, but he probably could have done with a bath. “Yeah,” he said. “Me and Abigail are with them. All the way.”

“Good,” said Hosea, seeming relieved. “It’s about time, John.”

“But Arthur and Mary Beth, they’re worried,” John said, looking down at his whiskey. “About the gang. I think reality is—it’s setting in a little bit. They don’t wanna leave people in a bind.”

“I know,” said Hosea. He tossed his cigarette to the porch and stamped it out with the heel of his boot. “I’m not surprised. I think it’ll be okay. Dutch and I are working on something new. I think we might be able to get back what we lost in Blackwater.”

“No shit,” said John. “What about the bank.”

“I’m still working on that,” said Hosea, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket. “If we’re gonna pull a big city bank job, I’m not taking any chances.”

“I’ve never robbed a city bank before,” said John. He finished his whiskey. “Seems dangerous.”

“You’re telling me.”

They stood for a while, listening to the crickets.

“Where’s Dutch, Hosea.”

Hosea sighed.

“He ain’t here,” said John. He tossed the cigarette, then the tin cup, turned to him. “It ain’t right. I was trying to keep cool, but Arthur’s gonna be—how could he do this?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it? What the hell is going on?”

“Please, John. Relax.”

“No.”

They heard horses then, coming over the hill up ahead. John looked up, instantly distracted and left the porch. He went down the steps and saw them—Arthur and Mary Beth, coming up side-by-side.

“It’s about time!” said John, walking out on the lawn to greet them. They hitched up, and John dusted his hands together and helped Mary Beth off her horse. Arthur hopped down, too, and they met with an earnest embrace. “Good to see you.”

“You, too,” said Arthur. “Thanks for being here.”

“Well we was surprised to hear, you know, about the wedding. But it’s good. We’re real happy.” He looked at Mary Beth then. “About the wedding, the baby, all of it.”

Mary Beth was very pleased. “Thank you, John.”

Hosea was there now, too. He hugged Mary Beth to his chest with a surprising strength, and he shook Arthur’s hand and congratulated him. “This is the right choice,” he said. “For both of you. Mary Beth, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” she said, straightening her skirt pleats. “A little tired, but nothing too bad. I’m afraid my hair looks like a rat’s nest at the moment.”

“You look radiant,” said Hosea.

She blushed.

“We was surprised to see Dutch out on the road,” said Arthur. “What the hell is going on?”

Hosea stopped on a dime. “Come again?"

“He’s _here_?” said John.

Arthur looked at them both like they were batshit. “Apparently. We found him on his way to getting lost. I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for the two of you to be traveling apart from one another, old man. Perhaps it’s time you get sewn together at the hip.”

Hosea looked away, like he was conflicted. “Yes well. That would be eccentric.”

“Where is he?” said John.

“Ran to the fence. Said he didn’t wanna show up empty-handed.”

“Sounds like Dutch.”

From inside now, you could hear Abigail, just sweeping with excitement. She must have heard the commotion. “Oh my god,” she said, and she appeared at the door, and then she threw open the screen and picked up her skirt and ran down the stairs. She hugged Arthur and then Mary Beth, and she grabbed Mary Beth by the hand. “You two!” she said. “Surprising us like that.”

“It was last minute,” said Mary Beth. “I wish we could have warned you.”

“Oh please,” said Abigail. “Don’t you worry. Now come on. I got something to show you.” She began to drag her up the stairs, back to the house.

“Where we going?” said Mary Beth. “I could really use a bath before I do much else.”

“Oh you smell like a peach,” said Abigail. “Later.” She glanced back at Arthur then as she tugged Mary Beth inside. “Don’t worry, Mr. Morgan,” she said. “I’ll bring her back to you.”

“No doubt,” said Arthur. Mary Beth looked back and Arthur sent her off with a two-finger salute. He lit a cigarette. “Abigail is one emphatic woman,” he said to John.

“She’s sewing Mary Beth a dress,” said John. “With Mrs. Winterson. She’s just excited.”

Arthur was taken by this, smiled, real proud. “She’s making her a dress?”

“She is.”

“It’s a real beauty,” said Hosea.

Just then, they heard another horse, rustling through the trees up ahead, making its big horse noises. There was a lull, and then they saw Dutch coming through, as expected. He was riding up, looking casual, holding a bottle of champagne by the neck. “Gentlemen!” he said.

Hosea said nothing.

“Dutch, what the hell?” said John. “What the hell you riding?”

Dutch got off his horse, hitched her up next to Sarah. He ignored John’s question altogether. “I brought libations. Arthur, my boy. And young John.” He tipped his hat. “Hosea.”

John shook his hand. He was earnestly surprised. “You’re goddam here. I thought you wasn’t coming.”

“Of course I came.” Dutch clapped him on the shoulder and went right past. “Have a little bit of faith, son.” He gave Hosea a look, and then he just went on and entered the house. "Come along, Mr. Matthews."

"Dutch, hang on."

But he wasn't listening. He was already inside, calling out through the foyer: “Mr. and Mrs. Winterson? Your final guest has arrived, and I come bearing gifts.” He was like some sort of natural disaster, knocking over everything in its way.

They all stood there, feeling flattened. Hosea shook out his head, pinched his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose like he had a headache.

“Am I missing something, Hosea?” said Arthur.

“Later,” said Hosea. “We can talk later. For now, enjoy the evening. It's your evening, after all, Arthur. I need to get inside to broker Dutch’s introduction to Lawrence Winterson. That man is canny, and Dutch has a way of…well let’s just say he can be overbearing at times.”

“I’ll be right there,” said Arthur, smoking.

“Sounds good.” He smiled, looking weary. “You look well, son.”

“So do you.”

Hosea seemed amused by this. He took off his hat and went inside.

Now, it was just Arthur and John. Arthur gave John a cigarette. John lit it with a match from his pocket off the sole of his boot. “How you feelin?” he said. He stood, smoking and surveying the evening lawn. It looked almost blue in the moonlight. “With Mary Beth being pregnant and everything.”

“I’m good,” said Arthur. “Though I ain’t sure it’s quite sunk in yet.”

“I hear that,” said John. He took a deep breath, blowing the smoke. “The reverend ain’t shown.”

“That’s okay,” said Arthur. He seemed unshaken. Very sturdy as he stood there. He was a little taller than John, and bigger and meaner but also somehow just…shiny. He had always seemed like that. Even when he was outright dirty as hell.

“You know, you smell like the goddam river,” said John.

“Shut up.”

They knew they had to get inside but it was just a moment longer then, and they stayed to look at the fireflies, thinking about the future. At some point, as the heat was easing off for good into the nighttime call, Lawrence came out. He was holding a flute of champagne and looked happy in the lines of his face. “Arthur,” he said. “It is good to see you.”

Arthur flicked the cigarette and straightened up right away. John watched how he changed, how he removed his hat and shook Lawrence’s hand firmly, with intent. “Thank you so much again, for letting us do this.”

“It is our pleasure.”

“We're expecting one more guest, plus the reverend. I hope Dutch ain’t already overstayed his welcome. He’s a bit of a showman, I must admit.”

Lawrence smiled. “That, he is. But he did bring very good French champagne. Lizette is pleased.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Will you two be joining us inside?” said Lawrence. “There’s food.”

“Yes, sir.”

They all went in, John following Arthur’s lead. He put his cigarette out and entered the golden glow of the warm house. There was something going on, he thought, with Dutch and Hosea. Jack was upstairs, asleep. He watched Abigail talking with Mary Beth as they sipped their champagne, both of them so excited. Sweet and pretty girls. He tried to let it soak into his insides, but he couldn’t shake this bad feeling. Or, it wasn’t bad. Just...weird. Off. He didn’t know what to think—about Dutch, about what the hell he was doing there, about Hosea being all cagey. But at least, for once, he was thinking. This seemed like a good start. Dutch brought him and Arthur some champagne where they stood over by the piano, and then he raised his glass and toasted to the happy couple.

“Love does not delight in evil," he said, "but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." That is how he closed his speech.

“Hear, hear,” said Abigail.

They drank.  


	33. Faith, Hope and Love, Pt. 2

It was the first of October and unseasonably warm in the state of New Hanover. The day before, the Reverend and the Mother Superior had stopped in Rhodes to see the red clay dirt and to talk of God and his many shapes and formulas. Swanson wanted to study the marriage vows as well, as it had been a long time since he’d performed any such ritual and even longer since he had thought about the meaning of love. They walked through the town, silently, getting the red dust on their boots, and they gave money to a sad veteran and then they found a little wedding going on at the chapel, between a very young man and a very young woman who both looked about eighteen years old. The young woman had a pregnant belly under her modest blue dress and there was nobody else in attendance except for them and a few worshippers only half-listening in the pews. It didn’t seem to affect anything about the way that they looked at each other. They were in love.

Swanson wondered if they had run away or if they were orphaned or what was going on. It put him in distress. He thought of Arthur as a very young man and all that had happened to him. A couple of times, he had gone with Arthur to see Isaac, when Arthur was only maybe 25. He was not the only one who had met Isaac back in those days. Hosea, too, had gone to meet the boy, and even John. Swanson couldn’t remember whether Dutch had ever gone or not, but he strongly remembered Dutch urging Arthur to bring them both back to the gang with him, where he could keep an eye on things. Dutch didn’t see anything good coming out of Eliza living alone. Of course, he had been right. He was often right in those days, but those days had gone south some time ago.

Isaac had been a serious child, and very sweet. He was shy and sensitive. But he was not sad. He just preferred caution, and solitude. He liked crayons and paper, and he liked to sing. He was happy, and he always remembered Swanson and Hosea when they came. He liked kites. Swanson remembered Isaac and Arthur going into town once to purchase a kite, and then flying the kite together on the lawn. It was a magnificent shade of red against the bright blue sky. Isaac had a very thick head of dirty blond hair, like Arthur, but Eliza’s dark eyes, and he trusted Arthur, idolized him even, despite Arthur’s limited presence in his life. Eliza trusted Arthur, too. Eliza and Arthur were good friends, it seemed, and maybe they were trying to reignite something, but Swanson did not remember them being in love. Arthur had already started up with Mary at this point, though it was new and not something anyone spoke of. Whatever he had with Eliza, it was responsibility. It was trying for a very adult arrangement, in a way, and of this, Swanson remembered being proud. Arthur tried very hard. He did the best that he could for as long as he could.

The last day Arthur went to see them, the gang was camped nearby, and he was supposed to just be gone for the night, but he never came back. Nobody knew what was going on. He was gone for several days with no word. Finally Dutch went out to find him, and Swanson and Hosea went along because they were very worried. Bad things had been happening. The O’Driscolls were a different animal in those days, and the blood feud was fresh in Annabelle's wake. They searched for a long time. When they finally found Arthur, he was lying in a creek with all his clothes off, and he hadn’t eaten, and he was half-dead with whiskey. At first, they thought he’d been kidnapped and left for dead, but that was not the case. He couldn’t speak through the booze or the weeping, but eventually he did manage a few words. _They got em,_ he said. _Got em both_.

Dutch and Hosea hauled him up and got him dressed and Swanson helped Dutch ride him home while Hosea went into Butte to see what the hell was going on. When he came back a day later, he said he’d gone and found Eliza's father, learned that she and the boy were dead, robbed and killed—maybe by bandits, but it could have been debt collectors. Nobody was sure, and there was no way to know, and Arthur couldn’t tell them anything.

Nobody blamed Arthur for their deaths—other than Arthur. Eliza’s father, it turned out, had always liked Arthur. He was sick, and they were a poor silver mining family, and they didn’t think much for the law as it had provided them with very little in those days, and so he thought that Arthur, despite his reputation, was decent for all he provided to his daughter—monetarily, and in the way of companionship. It wasn’t long then before Dutch went on his vendetta, trying to find the men responsible. Of course, he failed. The men responsible were not O’Driscolls. They were nobodies, in the wind. They were ghosts, and you cannot catch ghosts or shoot them in the back.

Swanson thought about their deaths almost every day now. How random, and how needless they had been. He remembered Mary staying away for a long time after that. One night, she came, a couple of weeks after it happened, and Arthur could not face her properly because of the booze. Hosea’s wife, Bessie—she had a kind streak, and she was the one to send her away. Mary seemed ashamed and upset with herself as if the whole thing were somehow her fault. Swanson found her crying near the camp, and he asked her if she was okay and needed a place to sleep, but she just got stoic and rode away and did not come back for a long time. She was not too self-sufficient when it came to dames, and Swanson worried for her safety, but he didn’t know she had a family. One day she came back, and it was okay again. Arthur came out to see her. He was nearly sober, and it all changed, very slowly, but he never really recovered. Not for years. Swanson was certain that this had been what poisoned his relationship with Mary—more so than her father, or any of that nonsense about his lifestyle. He would have left the life. He wanted to marry her, but she couldn’t make the choice. She begged him for a child, so he could make the choice for her, but he wanted a promise, a guarantee. Few people knew this about what happened between them. Reverend Swanson was one of the few.

That day, back in Rhodes, he and the Mother Superior left the chapel wedding and went to the saloon, where they shared a pitcher of lemonade, and continued their discussion:

“Love is about more than repopulation of the earth,” said Sister Calderón, taking a big drink. “Not all those in love will have children, but that does not take away the fact that their love is true. Love is like a tree. It fills the air with life. It is necessity to living.”

That night, they took the red-eye train overnight to Emerald Station. Arthur’s money had been enough to buy them both tickets and a meal in the dining car. When they were too tired to continue, they sat in separate rows, and though Swanson slept very little, Sister Calderón seemed to fall away into dreaming with hardly any trying at all. He wondered what that must be like, to be so safe inside your faith that you slept without fear.

Swanson leaned with his forehead against the cool glass, watching the hills and the plains and the meadows go by. He thought of Mary Beth. In the days when he was so drunk he could hardly see, Mary Beth had been kind to him. She was a kind girl. She was a little like Eliza, a little like Bessie, a little like Annabelle. All of them, he thought, but she was not them. She was loud and openminded, and she didn’t get dour, but she did get pensive, and she was no moral paragon, but she got pissed off when men said the untrue thing. She brought him coffee all the time. She would try to set him straight. _Get it together, Reverend. We need you,_ she would say. She had a good head on her shoulders. She was even teaching that O'Driscoll to read. He did not know if she was lying all those times she told him he was valuable to the gang, but even if she was, it helped. It always did. She was good for Arthur. Sometimes, he worried that after Eliza, and then Mary, Arthur would be alone forever. He had a talent for self-punishment of the likes the Reverend had never seen—outside himself, of course. The drinking, the loneliness. But now, he was not going to be alone anymore.

Eventually, Swanson drifted off to sleep with the sunrise, feeling hungry but cleansed from the day. They made an early morning stop in Valentine, where the train idled for a little while and many passengers boarded on their way up north. Swanson awoke to Sister Calderón shaking his shoulders and the loud sound of the train whistle, like a foghorn.

“Reverend,” she said as she nudged him, ceaseless. “Reverend, wake up. I cannot carry you to Mr. Morgan’s wedding. You must carry yourself!”

He sat straight up. “I am ready,” he said, feeling like he was facing fifty directions at once. “I am ready, Sister.”

“Of course you are,” said Sister Calderón. “That much was never in doubt. Now, let’s go, quickly. I need to stretch my legs! It is a beautiful day!”

 

Meanwhile, Arthur was out with Lawrence Winterson in the barn, feeding the hounds their lunch and talking about the minor complexities of their lives.

“It feels like the closer we get to leaving,” said Arthur, sitting in a wooden table chair, scrubbing one of the pretty mutts behind the ears, “the more loose ends we’ve got to tie. There are responsibilities pulling at me from all sides. And all of this…uncertainty.”

He watched as Lawrence finished pouring the kibble in the red bowls. The hounds all went to the bowls upon the noise. There were five in all. Lawrence was a thin man but hale, his hair very gray and peppery. He stood up and dusted his hands together. “I thought you would have been accustomed to uncertainty by now, given what I know about your life. I mean that realistically, not as an insult.”

“I understand,” said Arthur, looking down at his knuckles. “And I am accustomed to uncertainty. Just not like this.”

“You mean Mary Beth?”

“Yes.” He thought he should be asking Hosea about all this in the end, but it was too messed up. Too close to home. He was looking for objectivity. “I went from—beating down debtors for money, robbing small town banks, and just a whole hell of a lot of…what you might call _mercenary work_ …to this. To getting married, having a baby with a girl I’ve known for four years. You know I never been able to make it work before, a better life—whatever that means—but I never really gave it the try it deserved. I should have. Many years ago. I’ve had…a lot of chances that I blew. I blew em real bad. But now, it’s different, and part of that is because Mary Beth, she’s in it with me. This—predicament. She ain’t like me. She’s innocent to a whole lot, but she’s still a outlaw. She still runs with wanted men, and she don’t got the price on her head, but she does have this sort of…thing about her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, she’s wanted in three locals west of the Mississippi. For thieving. All petty stuff. They’d never hang her. But still. It’s all she knows. She was orphaned at twelve, almost the same as me, lived on the streets. She never had no chance. She’s lucky she made it this far. We both are. And we owe Dutch, and Hosea. They—gave us everything that we got. I mean hell, they taught me to read. They took care of me. Now, getting free—it’s like we’re untangling the roots of a thousand year old oak tree, trying to dig it up with our bare hands. It ain’t even about the money, I mean—I got money. For _us._ Me and John, together, we got just enough. But there are so many more. There are good people. Innocents and people who got nothing and nowhere to turn to but the goddam gang. It’s been the only family a lot of us have ever known. We leave them behind, exposed, in the lurch, I know that we will never be able to outrun that, and the guilt, it’ll tear us apart.” He took a deep breath. He’d never been able to see things so clearly in all his life, and yet the path was hidden.

Lawrence sighed and placed his hands in his pockets. He leaned against one of the heavy, load-bearing beams of the barn. He did not seem overwhelmed by any of this. He was so calm, so even as a man. “You seem very wise to your predicament, Arthur,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re looking for. It seems you know exactly what you have to do.”

“I do?”

“All I can say is,” said Lawrence, “consult Mary Beth. And remember that from here on out, you’re partners. Whatever decisions you make about your lives, like the kind of decision on whether or not you think you can leave people behind, just make sure you do it together, and that both of you are all in. You might be surprised at what happens.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you think I expected to end up owning a bed and breakfast in New Hanover?”

Arthur thought on it. He slouched back in the chair, placed his hands on his belt. “What was you expecting?”

“Something far more exciting, I assure you,” said Lawrence, smiling. “Then again, I’ve met you. And I’ve met Dutch van der Linde. Excitement comes in all forms, I suppose.”

Arthur found this to be tremendously funny. He took a toothpick from behind his ear and set it between his teeth as he laughed. “Well, that is true.”

The hounds finished their eating, licking their paws. Some of them licked their bowls. But then, all at once then as if on some sort of cue, they perked up and went for the barn door, scratching and barking. Lawrence slung the shotgun over his shoulder. He threw open the doors but whistled for them to disperse. They sped up the grass toward the two familiar faces coming in on foot, but then they split off, going in all directions. A few came back to lick their bowls. The rest disappeared into the tree line.

“Is that your Reverend?” said Lawrence, taking off his glasses to clean them.

Arthur stood, vindicated. “That is him.”

“Who’s that with him? A sister of the church?”

“Yeah,” said Arthur, standing now. “That there is Sister Calderón, Mother Superior at the Catholic church in St. Denis. I’m not sure what she’s doing here, but I guess it’s a good thing.”

“Another blessing, perhaps?” said Lawrence.

Arthur was chewing that toothpick to little splinters. He waved. They waved back. Sister Calderón was rushing toward him. “It’s nothing less than a blessing, I assume.”

“Mr. Morgan!” she said. She dropped her valise as soon as she got to him. To his surprise, she hugged him. Quick, but tight. She held his hands in both of hers. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Sister,” he said. “Now don’t shoot me, but I must say I am mighty surprised to see you here.”

“She’s with me. I hope it's all right,” said Swanson, wiping the sweat from his brow with a white handkerchief from his pocket. “She’s here for…guidance.”

Arthur placed his hand on Swanson’s shoulder. “I knew you’d come, and of course it's all right.”

“Thank you, Arthur. It is an honor.”

Arthur introduced Lawrence then who saw them both inside. But Arthur stayed out for a little while. He went to water the horses and then to brush out Sarah’s mane, as he assumed Mary Beth was busy, and he didn’t much feel like any more idle chit chat with anyone other than her. He leaned against Sarah and put some braids in her mane, and he smoked a cigarette for his nerves.

“What do I do, girl?” he said to her, patting her behind the ear. “What do I do?” She nuzzled him. He fed her a sugar cube, which she enjoyed. He smiled, comforted. Horses were simple.

 

Hamish arrived. He tied up Buell and came up holding a fishing tackle box that he had filled with a few things for the trip. He did not carry many earthly goods with him. A random weary traveler looking for a bed had come through as well the night before—a man by the name of Kelly—and so the Wintersons, with the unexpected presence of the Mother Superior, were one room short. John and Abigail offered to bunk in the kids’ room with Jack, but Hamish called it unnecessary. He said he’d just set up his tent and sleep on the lawn. Everyone thought he was kidding except for Arthur, who found it totally in character.

For an altar, John nailed together a cross with pieces of sawed lumber from the shed. Abigail decorated it with some wildflowers that Jack had gathered from the edges of the property, all while Lizette helped Mary Beth into her dress, and she braided her hair and kept things very simple, but pretty. Hosea gave Arthur a horseshoe he’d found in the stable and some little sleigh bells from Lizette’s sewing drawer to keep in his front pocket. “For good luck,” he said. Dutch gave to Arthur the tailored silver jacket, which immediately solved Arthur’s lack of certainty over what to wear.

“It’s…wonderful,” said Arthur, admiring himself in the mirror in Lizette’s sewing room—the same room where Lawrence had stitched up his arm many weeks before. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my boy,” said Dutch, smoking his pipe. “A man needs to look his best on a day like this.”

“I hope you didn’t pay too much.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’d spare no cost.”

Arthur sighed. Accepting the jacket from Dutch was difficult for him. It put guilt inside him, even as he wanted to believe that it was provided free of condition. It got him so messed up. Arthur allowed himself to be flattered either way. He was impressed by how Dutch had estimated his measurements, and the jacket truly was beautiful. He didn't want to make room in his chest for more questions, even as they forced in against his will. He swallowed it all down. Learning the truth about Annabelle had made Arthur sympathize with Dutch in the way of men rather than to see him as a father, and in some ways, this made things even more difficult than before. He wanted to talk to Dutch, as friends, comrades. He wished they could find a way to unravel the many layers of subterfuge and showmanship surrounding their relationship, but he didn't know when, or how. It was so hard, planning a confrontation like that. He didn't know how, and it was not the right time. His only recourse on that day was to ask neither Dutch nor Hosea to stand beside him during the ceremony. He asked only John.

Because even after so many years of being at odds with one another, John was true. Arthur knew this, and unlike anything with Dutch, he knew he could count on it. John was uncomplicated in his loyalty to Arthur, and once he made a choice, the choice was made. Arthur wasn't great at communicating his appreciation for this, but he tried. He did. He hoped that choosing him for a groomsman would show John that he was serious—about leaving, about their friendship, about everything.

 

The ceremony was held at sundown. It was very simple and pretty. John stood beside Arthur, looking proud and young. Abigail stood beside Mary Beth. The rest of them all stood around watching in a half-circle with their hands clasped in front of them or behind their backs, or their hands in their pockets. There was a breeze coming through to cool their cheeks. The sky was red.

“Love is patient,” said the Reverend. He was nervous, but he was so happy for Arthur and clear with sobriety that day that he found himself growing sentimental at almost every turn. “Love is kind. It does not envy, and it does not boast. It is not proud. It does not dishonor others. It is not self-seeking, nor is it easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongs. Love does—it does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.” He looked at Mary Beth then. She looked very young but beautiful in her dress. She was sort of silly, he thought. She liked to have fun. That day, she looked at Arthur like she was both relieved and also excited. She seemed to hurry along the Reverend with her posture, standing up on her tip-toes even though she did not have to, like she was eager to get it over with so she could kiss her groom and get on with her life. She wore no veil, only a modest crown of daisies, made for her by Jack. She took an eyelash off of Arthur’s cheek, which amused Arthur. She held it out to him, and he blew it off her finger for a wish.

“Love always protects,” Swanson continued, smiling, adjusting his collar, addressing his notes, and his Bible. Arthur and Mary Beth both looked at him as the wind rustled through their hair and Mary Beth's dress. “It always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” He then addressed his congregation, suddenly infused with a strange confidence. “A very wise woman once taught me that love is about more than procreating the earth.” He looked at Sister Calderón. She was excited. She waved at him, urging him forward. He nodded once, cleared his throat. “She said, ‘Love is like a tree.’ It is life-giving. That is what she meant. It provides. All life must end, but a life full of love is a life provided for. It affirms who we are, what we want, what we’re made of, our potential.” He looked at Arthur. Arthur was very calm. You could sort of see the gears turning behind his eyes as he contemplated this day, but it was all slow. It was very slow and even. “Love can be lost,” said Swanson, thinking of his own life, thinking of Isaac. “But it can be found again, as we witness today the union of two lost souls who have, in the time since they’ve met, found completion within one another. Life is—it is ever trying. But we cannot give up.” He blinked. He saw Dutch, standing near the front, his eyes heavy, cast down to the earth. “We cannot give up,” said Swanson. He closed his own eyes. Then he looked at Arthur once more, and Arthur nodded.

Swanson continued on to the rings after that. The rest of the ceremony came to him easily. He didn't fumble for the words, nor did he have to look at his notes. Arthur had a very pretty ring with a purple stone for Mary Beth, and Mary Beth surprised everyone, including Arthur, by having a ring for him as well, one that she had stowed away in the pocket of her dress. It was a gold band.

“I bought this,” she said to Arthur as she fitted the ring on his finger, “from an estate sale in Blackwater. Boy, that seems like another life now, don't it? Anyway, I thought it was fine, because it has a pretty filigree on the metal, and I kept it in a jewelry box, because I thought maybe one day I’d get to give it to a man that I loved. I wouldn’t wanna give him contraband. I was always dreaming. The day after you proposed, I put it in Watson’s saddlebag so that I’d always have it. I was ready for this day.” She was smiling, holding his hand in both of hers. “I didn’t know it would fit though," she continued. "That’s a nice surprise.”

Everyone laughed, even Arthur, who was looking down at the ring. He was not a man prone to ornamental decoration, but this was okay. It was pretty, and it was from her. He looked at the Reverend, full of decision then, the first real decision he had ever made in his adult life. He cleared his throat. “Let’s get on with it,” he said. “Read the vows, Reverend.”

The sun was almost down now, leaving a ring of gold over the trees.


	34. Safety and Other Dreams

Mary Beth stood at the window in their room at the B&B, looking out at all the possibilities. She’d gotten a little tired and left the party without telling anyone but Abigail. Arthur had been talking to Hosea and looked happy. She was certain that it was just because the day had been long, her feeling tired. In truth, though, she was very ready for things to go back to normal. For once, she found herself almost wanting to return to Shady Belle. She knew that was backwards, but it was how home had manifested itself in her mind. The place where everybody was, and where everything was the same. Like an anchor that she hated, but an anchor nonetheless. Mary Beth had lived a life that was always changing. She was in a constant scramble for the thing that never wavered. As she looked out the window at the long, blue lawn, she realized that home was for now a traveling suitcase, and despite this, she did not have to worry. Because she was not alone.She was comforted by the little life taking up residence inside her, and for Arthur. She had begun to feel mixed up by what it would mean to leave the gang that loved her, but it was gonna be okay. She took a deep breath. She heard the door open behind her, and she looked back and there he was.

“Hey there,” he said. He came into the room. 

She turned all the way around and leaned against the windowsill and smiled when she saw him. He closed the door, took off his shiny coat from Dutch and tossed it over the brass bed post. Underneath was just him in his white dress shirt, which was still tucked in but a little rumpled and a pair of light leather suspenders wearing thin. He was his big warm self, unchanged, and familiar to her. For the jacket was lovely, she thought, but it was very flashy, and that was not him. His hair was long by now, down to his shoulders, and she had hardly noticed before this moment. He looked windswept and soft with the liquor but just a little. He took off his gloves and set them on the bed.

"You snuck away,” he said.

“I was just tired,” said Mary Beth. “And you and Hosea was talking—I didn’t want to disturb. I snuck away.”

He was smiling. He came over to her at the window and took her right into his arms. He sighed big and huge all around her. She was so relieved now and all the things that had worried her at the window had gone. “Let’s just be in love and go to sleep,” said Arthur, a little cheeky. “What do you think, Mrs. Morgan?”

She blushed. “You like my dress, Mr. Morgan?”

“I do,” he said, getting a look at her. “Abigail and Lizette did a very good job. You look beautiful.”

She grabbed his face then and kissed him good. She had changed course and was suddenly far too happy for sleeping now. It took him by surprise but as usual he gave in to her.

“You have made an honest man out of an outlaw, Mary Beth,” he said, undoing her braid, piece by piece. “I am not sure how I can properly thank you.”

“I can think of some ways,” she said.

She was very glad to have married her best friend.

 

Meanwhile, downstairs, the party was winding down. John and Hosea were sitting at the kitchen table with Abigail, playing hearts, and Hamish had dozed off on an arm chair in the corner next to the piano. The Reverend and the Mother Superior, as well as Jack, had retired to sleep an hour before, and Lizette was sweeping up and dusting and watering the plants, wearing one of her pretty French aprons with the bobbin lace that she had brought from Nice. Abigail tried multiple times to offer her assistance in cleaning up, but Lizette would have nothing of it. 

Out on the porch, Dutch had taken up with his cigar, surveying. It was so dark out here, like being back in Wyoming. He had spent a lot of his life living everywhere, and trying to forget some places, but never Wyoming. Wyoming was where he had found Arthur, when Arthur had been just some long-haired blot-on-the-town teenager, playing cards in the back of a smoky Jackson tavern, caught with two aces up his sleeve and about twenty seconds from being beaten to death by a mining foreman named Spud. It was where he had picked up Susan. She had been a saloon girl in Casper, looking like some sort of washed up beauty queen, offering herself for a price that he found to be unsuitable. She knew how to work Dutch from the moment they met, and he did not buy her—was not prone to buying women, as he preferred that they desire him in return, and so he brought her home, and he protected her. She groomed up young Arthur and taught him how to sit straight, how to appear upstanding and how to use his natural gentlemanly demeanor to charm people into giving him the things that he wanted. Montana had been the death of Eliza and Colorado had been Annabelle. Bessie was Texas. Those states were all dead to Dutch. But nobody had died in Wyoming. Only love had been found. He longed to return but the journey west had been corrupted at some point. He was trying to remember why. He knew that he was losing everything and everybody dear to him, but he just kept fucking up anyway as if losing was his new normal.

“A fine evening, isn’t it?” said Lawrence Winterson. He came out onto the porch with his pipe, looking for quiet. The pipe had already been packed and lit. On instinct, Dutch nodded in an upstanding fashion. He knew how to act and seem better than other people. It was how he'd been born.

"Absolutely," said Dutch. "Join me, won't you?"

They smoked for a while, staring out at the reverie. Sometimes, you could see one of the hounds, come up to sniff the grass and then disappear back into the tree line. The world was filled with the sounds of deer and loons and coyotes and then the deep silence of the lonely back country that was the east Heartlands. At some point, Dutch cleared his throat. He turned to Lawrence, keeping his respectful posture, but in truth, he was highly suspicious and had been since the moment he arrived. “I would like to thank you, kind friend,” he said, “for hosting this gathering, and for extending your welcome and your home to us. Most of all, for taking in Arthur like this, especially despite what he is.”

Lawrence looked at Dutch, blinking from behind his spectacles. They gave him the look of a scholar, most certainly the doctor that he was. “What he is? You mean, an outlaw?"

Dutch laughed to himself, studying his cigar. “That is what I mean, yes. We ain't used to mixing in, you know, with civilized folk. The few times we have, we've ended up burned, or knee-deep in shit."

“Oh,” said Lawrence, wising up. He adjusted his glasses, looking back out to the lawn. “Yes. Well, I'm not sure what you consider civilized. I run a legal business, yes, but I have, at times, entertained customers who may or may not run completely in line with the law. I am neither stupid nor one to cast idle judgment, Mr. van der Linde. This is, after all, the Heartlands. We still tend to walk a rather fine line here. I'm sure you've been to Valentine. You know what I mean. And in any case, whether you're a noble banker in St. Denis or a country doctor who boards outlaws and provides the occasional safe haven for prostitutes and runaways, we're all sinners."

"Is that right?"

"It is."

Dutch took a deep breath. He puffed off the cigar, blew a single smoke ring into the air. "You say you regularly board outlaws and prostitutes, runaways, Mr. Winterson?"

"Regularly? No," said Lawrence, smiling. "But I have not been known to turn away people in need, regardless of their means at birth or social standing."

"That's very noble of you," said Dutch. "And a doctor to boot. You are, indeed, a role model, Mr. Winterson."

Lawrence chucked at this. He ran a hand through his hair, light and graying. He went up to the porch railing and leaned against it on his forearms. "I see we are playing a game," he said, glancing back at Dutch. "I am not one to beat around the bush. You can trust me, Mr. van der Linde."

"How do I know that?" said Dutch, taking a step toward him. His boots were heavy, and his spurs rang like bells. He smoked. He lowered his voice. "I've got a price on my head, Mr. Winterson. As does everybody here. Save for the holy people, of course, Mr. Sinclair I expect, and little Jack. Even Mary Beth and Abigail, they're wanted somewhere. Arthur may be the strong, silent, and trusting type, but I, sir, am not. This is my family, and I am trying to get them to safety. I cannot afford to entertain the untrustworthy."

Lawrence sighed. He nodded, looking back at the yard. "That is understandable," he said. "After all, I heard you are a great shepherd. John and Arthur both speak highly of you. It's true that I know who you are. That I recognized your name from the New Hanover Gazette immediately. But I must assure you, this is about Arthur. My wife and I care for him and Mary Beth. We truly do. We would never betray their trust. Ever."

"And I am supposed to just take you at your word?" said Dutch.

"No," said Lawrence. "But, it's all I've got, if you'll hear me out. Arthur mentioned to me that your father was in the Army of the Potomac. That he died in Gettysburg. Is that true?"

Dutch studied him closely. "It is."

"I was in the Army of the Potomac," said Lawrence, looking at him. "I was a surgeon, but I killed dozens of men when they broke our position and stormed our tents on Cemetery Hill. There were also men I could not save who I anesthetized into death. I could have fought beside your father. I could have watched him die, treated him, and I wouldn't have even known. There were thousands of us. I was one of the lucky ones. But I do know that whenever I come across another survivor like myself, like Mr. Sinclair for example, I am driven to loyalty. Your father died for a cause that I, too, would have died for. I don't care what you've done. Mr. van der Linde. I am not a moral paragon. I know what Arthur is capable of. I even know about Mary Beth. As long as we're square, you and me, I would never betray you or your people. Not for anything. Do you understand?"

Dutch's cigar had gone cold. He looked down, gave it up, tossed it over the porch railing and into the weeds. He hooks his thumbs over his belt, looked at his boots. "Yes, sir. I believe I do."

"Good," said Lawrence. "Because as I said before, I do care about Arthur. He came to us sort of like a bird with a broken wing. We never had children of our own. It's easy to get attached. Do you have any children of your own, Mr. van der Linde?"

Dutch gave him a stern look, but in the old man's eyes, he got lost and felt broken and for a moment understood why Arthur came here. “No," he said, unsure of why he was confessing such things, but he was. "I had a woman once. She was having my baby, but she died. That was it for me."

This seemed to sadden Lawrence considerably. He straightened up off the railing and placed his hands in his pockets, turning to Dutch, full of body language that communicated his sincerest condolences. "That is a terrible albatross," he said. "I am sorry, Mr. van der Linde."

Dutch said nothing. He felt a deep pressure building inside of him. It was like rage, but it wasn't. "Thank you."

"Anyway," said Lawrence, sort of smiling. He had an unfailing focus. "I should turn in. I hope we can part tomorrow with an understanding between us. You're safe here."

Dutch nodded, looking away. "Yes," he said. "I think we're square, Mr. Winterson." They shook hands.

Lawrence turned to go inside then. He clasped Dutch on the shoulder, lightly. "I should go check on our guest," he said. "The one not here for the wedding."

"You do that," said Dutch.

Lawrence was gone.

  

They rode back to Shady Belle in shifts. Dutch went first, then Hosea with John and Abigail the next day. Hamish stayed. The Reverend and the Mother Superior took the train. Arthur and Mary Beth waited until everybody was gone, enjoyed a couple of quiet days with the Wintersons and Hamish in the Heartlands. They went back three days after the wedding, rode straight to Shady Belle, stopping only once to rest. When they arrived, it was evening. Miss Grimshaw and Mr. Pearson had prepared the camp with booze and colorful streamers and music. Everybody was happy and using the occasion as an excuse to get wildly drunk and sit around the fire singing and laughing and confessing to one another their deepest, darkest fears and desires. They congratulated Arthur and Mary Beth. There were no fights. Micah wasn't there. Even the gators stayed away that night. Arthur and Mary Beth were thankful, but they really were not wanting for much. By the mid-evening, when the sun had gone down and the frogs and crickets came out, Susan could tell, and so she corralled them both, took them upstairs to Arthur’s room where she had prepared for them a small but important surprise.

“We rustled you up a bigger bed,” she said, showing them how she and the girls had fixed up the room a little bit, cleaned and brought up Mary Beth’s chest of clothes and all of her earthly possessions. “We thought you might be appreciative, as that thing you were sleeping on before, Mr. Morgan, weren’t room enough for the damn dog let alone a married man and woman. So there you go.”

It was so soft of Miss Grimshaw, sweet, almost enough to reduce Mary Beth’s unfailing fear that she may skin her alive. They were thankful. Tilly had also painted a picture of a flower garden for them, using pigment paints she had bought in St. Denis. It was clumsy but made beautiful use of color and light. “I thought it could be like a window,” she said. “Make it seem like you’re looking out at something more romantic than the swamps for a change.”

“It’s so pretty,” said Mary Beth, picking the unframed canvas up off the windowsill. “You should do more of these, Till. You could sell them in town for a good price.”

Tilly waved her off. “Do you know how hard that was? I ain’t doing that for anyone I don’t love as much as you two. Now, enjoy.”

They were overcome. They shut in very early that night. For they had an excuse to do so.

The next morning, Mary Beth slept in. Arthur went to find coffee, and then he went and sat down next to Sadie on the porch to drink it. She had been up for hours, it seemed, and was cleaning her guns, wearing her hat, as usual.

“Mrs. Adler,” said Arthur. “How are you today.”

“Hey, Arthur,” she said, smiling. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

“I am fine. Thank you.”

“Well, congratulations,” said Sadie. “We didn't have much chance to talk last night. But I’m—I’m happy for you. It’s a blessing, what you got. Don't fuck it up.”

Arthur smiled, then looked upon her seriously. She seemed very tired and alone. He sought to change the subject. “I heard you and Charles been out on some recreational errands involving O’Driscolls,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Is that right?”

She laughed to herself, sarcastically. “I guess you could call it that. _Errands._ ”

“How many you killed.”

“Dozens,” she said. “Maybe more, just in the past two weeks alone. Since Colm got his, they been turning up in all corners. Last we found them they’d been holed up in the Roanoke Valley. Nothing but cannibals and monsters up there. A few less now. We got em good.”

Arthur looked out at the camp. Jack was walking around with John, talking about something, gesticulating with his hands and holding a book. John seemed to be listening very closely, though he looked a trifle confused as to what the hell Jack was saying. Arthur smiled to see it. “Well I hope you’re being careful,” he said. “And I hope you’re laying off Kieran. You know he could’ve turned us in back at Lone Mule, but he didn't. He was tortured, and yet he stayed quiet. That means something.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Sadie. “I know. A woman can learn.”

“Yes, she can.”

“Charles don’t make mistakes,” she said, looking up at Arthur. “He’s like you. He’s a good partner. But I trust you won’t be coming with us anytime soon, daddy.”

Arthur was amused by this. “Nope. No O'Driscoll hunting for me. I’ve had my ass handed to me by that lot more than once. I have officially retired from the business of blood feuds. You give them my best though, won’t you?”

“If your best is a bullet to the head, then I sure will.”

Arthur laughed. He finished his coffee.

“So how does it feel?” said Sadie. “Being married.”

“You would know,” said Arthur. “How did you feel, when you got married?”

She stared at him, a mixture of emptiness and pain, but also surprise. She seemed happy that somebody was thinking of it, remembering what she had been before, not walking on eggshells for once. “I felt safe,” she said, nodding, setting the gun down on her lap. “For the first time in my whole life.”

Arthur nodded in solidarity. “Yeah, me, too,” he said. He patted her on the shoulder and got up to leave. “Well, I best be getting on.”

"Okay, Arthur."

He dusted off his jeans. It was in this moment that he was beckoned by Hosea from the doorway.

"Arthur,” he said, holding a rolled up newspaper, seeming rushed.

"What is it?"

“Can we talk?” he said. “Upstairs on the balcony. As soon as you're able.”

Arthur nodded. Hosea greeted Sadie then went inside.

“What’s that all about?” said Sadie.

Arthur took a cigarette from his front pocket, still staring at the door. He lit it and smoked. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But I can guess."

"Care to share?"

"Maybe later. See you, Mrs. Adler.”

“It’s just Sadie,” she said, smiling. “You don’t have to call me that no more. We’s friends.”

Arthur nodded. “Okay, Sadie. You have a good day now. And no dying. You hear?”

“I ain’t afraid of dying.”

“Yeah,” said Arthur, smoking. “I know you ain’t. But we need you here.”

This baffled her.

 

Upstairs, Arthur found Hosea leaning on the bannister, looking down at the bounty of hungover outlaws and all of his happy children. He coughed once when Arthur arrived, turned around and placed his hands in his pockets. “Good morning, Arthur,” he said. “How are you feeling today.”

“About the same as any other day,” said Arthur. “Except I no longer sleep alone, by law.”

Hosea found this amusing. “A humble outlook. That’s good. Being a husband suits you, Arthur. I always thought it would.”

“Well, I'll take that as a compliment, coming from you,” said Arthur. “Now what’s this about?”

“It’s about that poker game, on the river boat,” said Hosea. “You remember we talked about this, some weeks back?”

Arthur sighed. He’d had a feeling. “I do,” he said. He released a bit of smoke from his lungs and then walked out to the balcony and looked down at all the water and the muck and the trees. “What’s the story.”

“Well, we’ve got a development,” said Hosea.

“And?"

"And you’re in,” he said. “Josiah secured you an invitation.”

“It’s just poker?” said Arthur. “If it’s just poker, I can do poker.”

“Indeed. Count the cards at your discretion. I’d advise against sleight of hand, though. You can’t get caught doing math in your head, but you can get caught with an ace up your sleeve.”

Arthur nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

“There’s a catch,” said Hosea.

Arthur gave him a look, leaned into the balcony, feeling undue annoyance. “What kind of catch.”

"A stipulation of sorts. You have to bring Mary Beth.”

“What?”

“The invitation was extended by Angelo Bronte,” said Hosea. “You have to be Tacitus Kilgore and his wife Marie. It’s both of you, or neither. That’s the only way you’re getting in.”

Arthur just stared at him. He caught himself almost laughing at this, for the situation seemed to fly up and out of his control in an instant. “You’re goddam serious.”

“Yes, I am. She won’t be the only woman there,” said Hosea. “I’ve looked into it. There’s a whole salon of wives and mistresses who accompany their men to these sorts of things. Of course they don’t take part in the gambling. That would be uncouth. They drink and mingle elegantly in an adjacent ballroom. It’s all very aristocratic, I assure you.”

“You’re out of your damn mind, Hosea.”

“I know it sounds that way, but the take will be big, Arthur. I’ve got Dutch against the ropes on leaving the south. We get a couple more big takes, we can be out of here for good. We can go north, and you and Mary Beth, John and Abbie can finally get the hell out of here, live your lives.” 

“North?” said Arthur. “What the hell happened to Tahiti?”

“That’s in the wind,” said Hosea. “I told you. I been working on Dutch. He’s listening.”

“And this don’t seem at all suspicious to you,” said Arthur. “Angelo Bronte inviting me, a known outlaw, and my new wife to play cards on a riverboat. You don’t think that sounds like a trap?”

“Of course I do,” said Hosea, wiping his forehead with a red handkerchief. “And though I don’t think it is a trap, the remote possibility that it could be is exactly why, Arthur, I have some work-arounds I want to discuss with you."

"Work-arounds?" said Arthur. "Such as."

"Changing the location, for example," said Hosea. He took out a cigarette. Arthur lit it for him out of habit. He smoked. "To ensure we can control what goes down. And I’ve got some...guarantees we can utilize, involving a few Texas Rangers I know, traveling in the area."

“Texas Rangers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hold on,” said Arthur. He leaned in, lowered his voice, trying hard not to get angry at the old man. “Before you go on any further, Hosea, about guarantees and work-arounds and so forth, what on god’s green earth makes you think I’d even consider this. Mary Beth is pregnant.”

“I know.”

“Then you know my feelings about bringing her on jobs.”

“I do,” said Hosea. “And Dutch warned me on the matter. I just thought maybe I could convince you otherwise this time.”

“You. _You’re_ trying to convince me otherwise?”

“Yes.”

Arthur shook his head out. He was almost laughing. It was flipping him upside-down.

“Arthur, just hear me out," said Hosea. "I would never willingly put you or Mary Beth in danger.”

“I won’t do it. I won’t take her.”

“You won’t take me where?” said Mary Beth. She was standing in the doorway, dressed for the day with her hair braided to one side. She was a mild sight, holding a book in one hand and an empty basket in the other.

“Mary Beth,” said Arthur.

“Hi,” she said, looking concerned. She came into the room. “What are you two talking about?”

Arthur took a deep breath. He lowered his eyes. Hosea smiled and straightened up, putting on his best show. “I’ll let you two discuss,” he said. He greeted Mary Beth and then bid them both farewell on his way out the door, still smoking. He coughed some. They listened to his footsteps on the stairs as he went away.

Arthur had both of his hands in his pockets now. He was staring down at the floor, shaking his head.

“Arthur?” said Mary Beth. “What’s going on?”

He glanced up at her. She was pretty there, put together for the day in her usual manner. He had wanted to take her away, not bring her back. But here he was again, going in circles, never realizing until it was too late. And he knew what she was gonna say.

“Is this about the river boat?” she said.

He nodded. “Yes."

He was clenching his jaw, his head hurting. He tried to imagine what their honeymoon would have been like in another life where they were both not accustomed to living so recklessly. 


	35. Get the hell out of Lemoyne.

“So what’s the story?” said Mary Beth. She set down her basket and her book. She glanced around as if she thought someone might be listening. “You doing the poker game or what?”

“No,” said Arthur. His manner was stoic as usual. He picked up his hat, checked the lining. It probably needed to be replaced. He set the hat on his head. “Let’s get on with the day Mary Beth.”

She walked up to him. She took off his hat. She examined the lining. “I can mend this for you.”

“If you want.”

Then she took a deep breath. She looked up at him and how he seemed angry at something. “So you ain’t gonna tell me?” she said.

“Tell you what.”

“What you and Hosea was talking about.”

“It ain’t nothing you need to worry about, Mary Beth.”

“Then why was I in the conversation?”

“Because,” said Arthur. He removed his hat from her hands. He placed it back on his head and went back over to the window. “Hosea wants us play-acting again, as the Kilgores. And I’m saying no.”

Mary Beth felt surprised. She stood up taller, clasped her hands in front of her real proper. “Why?”

“I ain’t taking you on no river boat,” he said. “We ain’t doing these cons no more.”

“What do you mean _no more?_ ” she said.

“You know what I mean.”

“You mean because we’re married now. And because I’m having your baby.”

Arthur closed his eyes, caught in a loop of his own destruction. She had employed a certain tone of dissatisfaction in her voice, and he knew it. “Mary Beth.”

“Don’t _Mary Beth_ me,” she said. Outside, somewhere real close, a bird was chirping. It sounded in distress, but it could have just been excited. “I know you got a lot of chivalry inside you, baby, and this is always coming from that good place that I love, but ain't we even gonna talk about it?”

“This is Hosea’s plan, not mine. There ain’t nothing to talk about.”

“Hosea wouldn’t just drop us into the lion’s den unprotected, Arthur. You know that.”

“It is still a risk I’m not inclined to take.”

“What risk would you be inclined to take?” she said. “Bringing me on a hunting trip, up to the Roanoke Valley? Where we almost died a hundred times?”

“Please.”

“Or maybe you could hide me in a cave again, saving my soul from the unpleasance of murder, and then I could get almost-killed by some other of Dutch’s mortal enemies.”

“What are you getting at, Mary Beth?"

She rolled her eyes. “If danger is gonna find me, it’s gonna find me, Arthur. I ain’t your damsel in distress.”

“I know that.”

“Yeah, but you wanna treat me like one.” She shoved him a little, in the chest, like she was trying to prove a point, trying to keep from saying something she’d regret. He took a step back. “This is just a con, Arthur. A simple con, and we have done it before.”

“A simple con?” he said. “We are cheatin cards on a river boat full of armed guards, Mary Beth. And drunken fools with more money than they can count on the line. Ain’t nothing simple about this con.”

“ _Y_ _ou_ are cheatin cards. I’m just hanging around, pretending I’m somebody’s daughter.”

 “Bronte invited me only on the condition that you come along. That don’t seem suspicious at all? That don’t freak you out?”

“Not really," she said. "Is it so weird? He’s rich. It’s his entire dumbass goal in life to surround himself with pretty nonsense. You cheat the cards, and apparently that’s all I gotta be.”

“You ain’t no rich bastard’s pretty nonsense, Mary Beth. You’re my wife.”

“Oh, so that’s it now? Because if I’d’ve known you was just gonna turn me into your _wife_ , maybe I would not have married you at all.”

This set off a bad feeling in the room. He changed his posture and scratched at the scruff on his chin, squeezed his eyes shut. It pissed him off. “That is a goddam ridiculous sentiment, Mary Beth. And you know it. You know I don't feel that way.”

"Yeah, I know it,” she said. “That’s the whole reason why I said it. So you can hear what you sound like, all that pride you got going on.”

Arthur became stern. “You wanna talk about pride? This ain't about nothing but you wanting to prove yourself when you know you ain't never had to. Let me protect you when the occasion calls.”

“I do,” she said, getting shrill against her own better judgment. “All the damn time.”

“Then what is the matter this time?”

“Because you won’t even bring me into the conversation!” she said. “Because you’re acting like what I want don’t matter. You’re making the decision without me. You never done that before.”

The bird outside had gone quiet. The room was warm. She could see him starting to get frustrated. “I understand that. But you are pregnant, Mary Beth.”

“So what? So I can’t reason?”

“No,” he said. “No. That ain’t what I mean.”

“It don’t change anything, Arthur. It’s just making you anxious, so you can’t see straight.”

“What, exactly, ain’t I seeing straight?”

“Tell me why I can’t go on the goddam riverboat with you, Arthur. Tell me. What’s gonna happen?”

He took a breath, getting flustered. “It’s on a riverboat,” he said. “In a river. We get in a pinch, you gonna swim to shore?”

“I’m a fine swimmer, I’ll have you know, Arthur Morgan. And being pregnant don’t make me a invalid.”

“I never said that it did. Even still.”

“I ain’t even that pregnant,” she said, huffing. “Can’t nobody tell unless you’re you or me. When my momma was way more pregnant than this, she was working calves and tilling the fields.”

“Sure. But I bet she wasn’t conning rich psychotic men on river boats, making them look one direction, while your daddy, a wanted man with a $5,000 bounty on his head, played them dirty in the other. I wanted to get you out of here. I wanted to put things right. Don't that mean anything?”

“It does, but we didn’t choose this life,” said Mary Beth. “And things ain’t proving so easy. We got a long way to go if we’re gonna get out of here, live honest. Helping the gang is helping the gang, Arthur. It ain’t me skulking around, simply mending your hats, sitting pretty in a window while you make all the decisions, on your own, just because you’re scared of what might happen if god forbid I am let in on the action."

"You are the one who offered to mend my hat, Mary Beth. I've never once taken that sort of work from you unless it's been offered to me."

"Quit changing the subject."

He almost started laughing. "Jesus Christ."

"This is a con, not a murder spree," she said. "And I know the difference between when I need to be protected and when I don't. And anyway, try to remember that my parents, they lived honestly by the law their whole lives, and they still both died in terrible circumstances. Living honest didn’t save them none.”

Arthur shut right up then, and he looked away. He wasn’t softening any, but she could tell he was conceding this one. “I’m sorry. I know what happened to them weren’t fair.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Just admit you’re scared.”

He looked up. He looked right at her. “I got no problem with that,” he said, almost eagerly. “I am goddam mighty scared of losing you.”

“So you wanna just keep me in a locked room forever?”

“No,” he said. “No. I don’t. That is not—just listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re my wife, Mary Beth,” he said. “My wife. I love you. I married you. In front of god and—and a whole bunch of other people I care about. Of course that changes things. Of course it changes my willingness to take you into the lion’s den, and yes, it is compounded by the fact you’re pregnant. You shouldn't have to do these things."

"But I do."

He shook his head. "I’m sorry if I have at all overreacted in this room with you today, but I ain’t sorry for saying no to Hosea. We ain’t doing the riverboat job, and that is the end of this conversation.”

“No it ain’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

Outside, you could hear the reverie of the late morning kicking in. Pearson put the lunch on. Abigail was yapping at Jack, for he had done something regrettable. Mary Beth was staring at Arthur in a quiet rage. She had not forgotten that she loved him so, but she needed to say or do something because otherwise she was gonna go fuckin crazy. So she screamed in his face, and then she left, storming off through Shady Belle.

He lit a cigarette. He shook his head. He could hear her boots on the stairs, and then down on the first floor, and then he could hear the front door flying open and slamming shut. He smoked. He heard Sadie ask what was wrong, and he could hear Mary Beth brush her off as politely as she knew how in the moment. He felt tilted, and like the blood was still hot in his head but he couldn’t defend himself anymore, so he went out to the balcony and shouted her name. “Mary Beth. Where you going?”

But she said nothing in return. Javier and Lenny had to get out the way fast when she got over to the horses. They were eating their lunch out of heavy bowls and looked up at Arthur in confusion when she would not respond to their hellos. Mary Beth was not the silent, skulking type. That was Arthur. Anyway, she got on her pretty spotted Apaloosa, and with no further warning or concern, she giddy-upped and rode away.

“Shit,” said Arthur. He tossed the cigarette. He went downstairs and walked through the yard, shouting after her some more, but she was already out of his view.

“Arthur, what the hell is going on?” said Abigail. She had been feeding a pig ear to the dog by the chickens.

“Nothing,” he said, mounting Sarah, patting the old girl behind the ears. “I’ll be back.”

 “You better not be fucking this up with Mary Beth!”

“You worry about you,” he said. “You let me worry about her.”

“Fine.” She tossed the pig ear into the swamp reeds and Cain went after it fiercely. She called after Arthur as he went, “But I mean it!”

He rode out through the trees and the bubbly mud and followed her trail onto the road. She was in the distance. He could see her, gaining speed, heading north.

He shouted to her, but there was no way she could hear him. So he picked up the reins. Sarah was a good deal faster than Watson, and Mary Beth wasn’t bad but he was by far the better rider. With a little ingenuity per his navigation of the terrain, he caught up to her in a second.

“Mary Beth, stop,” he said, galloping up beside her.

“Stop following me, Arthur. I don’t wanna talk to you right now.”

“Fine, but you can’t just ride off like that. It ain’t safe.”

She gave him quite a mean look after that, and she kicked up some speed and made a long sound of exasperation. “Arthur Morgan, if you come back at me one more time with that line about _it ain’t being safe_ , I swear to god.”

“Stop the goddam horse.”

“No.”

 They rode on a little further, the mud getting red as clay beneath the hooves of their steeds as the rounded toward Rhodes. “Where the hell you going anyway?” he said.

“None of your business.”

Arthur sighed. “I ain’t turning back without you.”

She said nothing.

But then, all of a sudden, there were voices on all sides of the road—gunshots flying out, all around and out of nowhere. Arthur ducked on instinct and watched Mary Beth do the same. It was Lemoyne Raiders, and they were like cockroaches, always showing up, and they always seemed to recognize him in these parts as he had done them dirty one too many times.

“Goddammit.”

“What the hell?” said Mary Beth.

But he just swore again and shouted for her to ride. “Ride,” he said.

“What?”

“Don’t stop. Not till you hit the town. And when you do, stay there.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Take care of this.”

Immediately though, he could see the switch behind her eyes as they descended. “Arthur, no. I ain't leaving you”

“I got it, Mary Beth," he said. "Ride and don’t you goddam look back.”

She nodded, finally, looking scared. She pulled ahead, and he yanked back on the reins and stopped his horse on a dime, rearing in chaos, drawing their fire.

Almost immediately, Sarah was shot out from underneath him. They both went down in slow motion. Arthur drew his repeater from the saddle and took cover behind a huge rock outcropping off the side of the grassy road. His ears were ringing. He lit a stick of dynamite, pitched it into a cluster of the enemy at the top of a low hill. The sound shook the whole goddam afternoon. A couple of the stragglers ran in, holding their injured extremities but still shooting, and after a modest exchange of gunfire and swear words, they were put down as well, and then Arthur was breathing hard, unscathed but exhausted, with his back pressed to the rock, trying to catch his breath with his eyes closed.

The first thing he did when he gained his bearings was get up and make sure he did not see Mary Beth. She had not been that far out ahead of him when the shooting got bad, but he was pretty sure she’d got out of there. Then he went to Sarah. She was done for. He knew it, and his heart was sinking as he saw her and her pretty champagne coat, the life slipping out of her so painfully. Shook, but without delay, Arthur put her to rest with the sharp end of his hunting knife. He half-wept as he did it, then pulled himself together enough to lean against her heavy body. He swore loudly, pounded his fist to the earth. Then he put his head in his hands for a minute before finally locating his composure and getting to his feet.

He looked around. It was a hot day. The sun blazed down and made him sweat through his shirt, and he had Sarah’s blood on his hands up to his elbows. The dead Raiders smoked up there on the hilltop and the rest of them were lying there with their loose jackets rustling in the low breeze. A man and a woman rode through on their wagon, and they seemed scandalized by the scene, but the moment they saw that it was Raiders, they reassessed and rode on without incident. Arthur began trudging in the direction of the town to find Mary Beth.

But he was surprised then. Two survivors from the onslaught came at him from behind with alarming speed. One of them tackled him into the dirt, giving him a mouthful of mud, hollering, and he began to hammer Arthur in the face continuously with his fists.

“You ain’t welcome here no more,” he said. Again, and again. “You goddam piece of shit. Get the hell out of Lemoyne.”

Arthur got ahold of his wrists somehow and head-butted him into submission. He put him down with his fists, but when he turned around, the other man was standing there with his sawed-off out, pointed at Arthur, right between the eyes.

Arthur stumbled, went backward trying to get away, dizzied and defeated. He saw his whole life flash by in a single instant filled with pain, suffering, redemption, and love, prepared to meet his maker, as he so often was. He closed his eyes, heard a loud shot ring out, and for a moment imagined that he was dead and floating away to find his mother.

But it wasn’t lead in his skull, and he wasn’t dead. He opened his eyes, alive and unsure, as he did not know what he would find there. The man who’d had the gun out was dead, shot in the face, and Mary Beth was standing over him with a shotgun she must have picked up off the road somewhere. She looked feral and like she had just been possessed by the wrath of god.

Arthur had his hands up, was lying on his back still. “Mary Beth,” he said, real quiet. “Baby.”

She blinked rapidly, and then when she realized he was talking to her, she tossed the gun far away from her body like it was red hot. She looked down at her hands, and then she looked at Arthur. “Oh my god,” she said.

He got up right away. He grabbed her and held her tightly to his chest. “It’s over,” he said. “It’s all right.”

“Shit,” she said, looking down at the dead man she had put there in the dirt. “Arthur, he was gonna kill you.”

“You saved my life,” he said, jacked up on adrenaline and a lot of sudden pain in his face from that beating. “You truly did this time. You did nothing wrong.”

“I ain’t never killed no one before.”

“Are you okay?” he said. They both looked down, and he had his hand placed across her abdomen. “Mary Beth, are you okay?"

She paused, took a deep breath, as they calmed and remembered what was important. Then she nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

He took her into his embrace. They exhaled. Then, sweating in the hot sun, amidst so much randomness and destruction, they just stood there for a while.

 

That night, while in their bed, Arthur and Mary Beth did not talk anymore about the river boat. They were gonna wait until the morning when the air was clear, and to get the whole plan from Hosea first, as was presently decided. Mary Beth sat in her nightgown with her knees pulled up to her chest, staring out the window at the moon as she was supposed to be reading. Arthur had begun to sketch Sarah, in remembrance, but he had become distracted by Mary Beth’s anxiety and preoccupation.

“What’s going on?” he said, closing his journal. He set it aside, put his hand on her knee. “You need to talk more?”

“No,” she said. She took a deep breath. “No. Or, not about…that. I just can’t stop thinking about Sarah. It’s my fault, Arthur.”

He sighed. “No, no it isn’t.”

“If I hadn’t run off, you wouldn’t’ve gone after me, and Sarah wouldn’t’ve got shot.”

“You only ran off because I chased you off. This is nobody’s fault. It was a bad break for a good girl. I’m sad, but I reckon her life is better now, in horse heaven, or wherever the best ones go.”

Mary Beth smiled to herself, in a small way, at his little funny, romantic sentiment. She looked at him. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

She settled back beside him, and she took her book off the nightstand. He opened his journal and steadied his pencil to the page. “What are you reading tonight,” he said.

“Mary Shelley,” she said. “ _Frankenstein._ ”

He chuckled. “Yikes.”

“Pretty much,” she said, book open, leaning on him.


	36. Stand By Your Man, Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Acknowledgments at the end of this chapter!

“So. Texas Rangers, huh?” said Arthur.

It was noon in the high saloon of St. Denis. Arthur, Mary Beth, and Hosea were seated at a round table near the window with two Texas Rangers by the names of Call and LaBoeuf. Hosea had called them in that day to reap their help with the riverboat job, as he was collecting on a favor owed to him from years before. Arthur was smoking compulsively while Mary Beth leaned with her chin in her hands, bored by what she assumed would soon become a show of dueling masculinities. Call and LaBoeuf were both upright characters who took themselves very seriously but in different ways. Call was older and obviously much more distinguished. He had many lines in his worn-out features and a heavy but well-maintained salt-and-pepper beard. LaBoeuf was thirty or so. He chewed on a piece of cocaine gum with a great deal of enthusiasm and carried maybe a little too much weight around his middle section. They both spoke with tough Texas accents that were thick and recognizable but far different from the molasses drawls of Lemoyne. 

"Texas Rangers," said LaBoeuf. "That's right."

“You lot still set on shining up your badges as priority one?” Arthur went on. “Or you catch anything worth hangin lately.”

“Forgive him,” said Hosea, straightening his neckerchief, sitting behind a blueprint of the riverboat he had skimmed off the captain's wife some days before. “He’s never had a badge to shine.”

“Not true,” said Arthur.

“We are currently hot on the trail of a man who killed a senator back in Dallas,” said LaBoeuf, unmoved, chomping. “Been on his trail since he left another man dead in Arkansas, husband, and father of one.”

“Killed the poor bastard right in front of his teenage daughter,” said Call.

“Jesus,” said Arthur.

“That’s awful,” said Mary Beth.

“Awful indeed, ma’am,” said LaBoeuf. “We got a tip, says he’s been shacking up here with a gang known as the Lemoyne Raiders. You know of these reprobates?” He said Lemoyne like  _Lee-moyne._

Arthur smoked his cigarette to the nubbin and stamped it out in the crystal ash tray in the center of the table. “Bunch of old-fashioned hillbilly racists, used to outfit in our camp. I know them all too well.”

“They killed Sarah,” said Mary Beth.

“Who is Sarah?” said Call. He was enchanted by Mary Beth and glanced at her often.

“My goddam prized Foxtrotter,” said Arthur. He reached into his pocket for the tobacco tin. “I don’t like losing animals, Mr. Call, and I got a bone to pick. Even more so than usual.”

“Well, we could certainly use your help, if you’re offering, Mr. Morgan.”

“Oh, I’m offering.” 

Mary Beth leaned into him then, whispered into his ear. “You’re hunting Raiders now? What happened to _living honest_.”

"Gee," he said. He lit his cigarette, smirked at her as he shook out the match. “I don't know,  _Mrs. Kilgore_.”

She elbowed him playfully and resumed her posture at the table. LaBoeuf cleared his throat.

"You got a cough there?" said Arthur.

“No, sir," he said. "Mrs. Morgan, I just overheard your concern."

"Which one."

"I would just like to remind you that bounty-hunting is  _legal work_.”

She glared at him. “It ain’t the legality I’m worried about, Mr. LaBoeuf. Obviously."

"Then what's the worry."

“In my experience, legality don’t mean safe," she continued. "If you drag my husband out on one of your _legal_ missions hunting murderers for the state of Texas, then he’d better not come back shot. That’s all I’m saying.”

Arthur grinned to himself, feeling hot in his cheeks and around the rim of his shirt. LaBoeuf studied her, popped another piece of gum. He had a ripe scar across the bridge of his nose and a superiority complex. “Well then.”

Hosea interjected. “She’s got spunk, our Mary Beth," he said. "Real tenacity. It’s why she needs bodyguards on the job.”

“Of course,” said Call, his voice stern and deep. “And we are happy to provide whatever assistance we can in the way of intimidation, Mr. Matthews, per the terms of our reciprocal agreement. We’d also be willing to enter into new and future negotiations if Mr. Morgan here is willing to assist us on that bounty.”

“The way you law men still rely so recklessly upon the lawless for your enterprise, even as you drive us from the open range and straight to the gallows will never cease to astound me, Mr. Call,” said Arthur. “Nevertheless, I am in.”

“Good,” said Call. He leaned back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other. His coffee sat, untouched and getting cold. He had a canny look about him as he lit a cigarette. “For the record, Mr. Morgan, we ain't Pinkerton Detectives," he said. "We may be law, but we know how the world works. You boys have helped us out of all manner of scrapes, from Arizona to the Dakotas. Mutual respect is in our best interest, and we’d just as soon keep it that way.”

“I admire your nostalgia,” said Arthur, gazing at him. “You keep me and my wife safe on that riverboat, and you and me, we’ll have an understanding. You got my word on that.”

They shook hands.

“Very good,” said Hosea. 

"I would appreciate it now," said LaBoeuf, "if we could go over the specifics."

"Of course," said Hosea. He wiped his face with a pale handkerchief and then put it in his pocket. "It's rather simple, really. As a private security detail, you'll have two main objectives at the poker game."

"Go on."

"The first objective is to offer your authority on the manner of Mary Beth's alias. The second is protective in capacity. Mary Beth is playing a rather complex role, and she needs credibility, so as agents of the law in Texas, you can offer that to her. Anyone asks, her father is Larry 'Blue' Johnson, ex-outlaw turned oil man back in Galveston. Old Blue is a real person, or he was anyway, before we put him in the ground back in '91, but the State Government still believes he may be alive. I've had documents forged in his name, deeds of ownership for two fictional oil fields, one in Galveston, and one in Dallas. Those deeds have already been filed with the county assessor, thanks to a couple old buddies I got back in the Dallas City Hall. Those are just secondary insurance, mind you. They exist only as our benefactor at this party, Mr. Angelo Bronte, is a blowhard, but he's got deep pockets, and if he looks into Marie Kilgore's history, this is what he'll find. You two are our frontline defense and pony show. You're bodyguards, contracted by Marie Kilgore's father. Just follow Mary Beth around and stay quiet, looking tough and Texan, badges and sidearms visible. Your presence will be cleared ahead of time, through the riverboat's proprietor and host of the evenings' affairs. He's some local aristocrat or other, young as all hell, entirely harmless, a contact through our associate Josiah Trelawny. What's important is that you are Texas Rangers. Act like Texas Rangers, and everything should go smoothly."

"Sounds easy enough," said Call. "We'll study the blueprint this week and draw up an escape plan in the unlikely event that the night go south."

"Thank you," said Arthur.

"What about Mr. Morgan here," said LaBoeuf. "What's the story on his alias?"

Hosea rolled up the riverboat blueprint into a tight scroll, secured it with a piece of twine, and handed it to Call. "The beauty of Tacitus Kilgore is that he is a known outlaw, reforming as a married man, exactly like Arthur. There's nothing you need to do but keep an eye on him from afar. He'll be cheating cards while performing only minimal sleight of hand. He'll make his winnings believable, but should anybody desire to rustle him up and search his sleeves, you'll let them, and he'll submit. The goal is to make money, and nothing more. Nobody needs to get hurt, but there's gonna be a lot of chips on the table, and so tempers will fly. The priority is Mary Beth's safety. If it comes to throwing hands, exercise your authority, but for the most part, Arthur can handle himself. He gets into a scrape he can't get out of, that probably means the job has gone south, and it's time to relocate."

LaBoeuf nodded. Call studied the scroll as if it were a sacred artifact. Arthur took a deck of cards from his pocket. He had purchased them earlier from the bartender and was now shuffling them with precision. He watched Call through a haze of smoke. "There's one more thing," he said. 

Call looked up. "Which is?"

"Angelo Bronte. Hosea mentioned him before. I am concerned that he has an unnatural affection for Mary Beth. We're gonna keep an extra special watch on him throughout the duration of the festivities. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," said Call. 

"Bronte?” said LaBoeuf. He had produced a hunting knife from his belt with an ornate handle, took to studying its tip. “What is that, Spanish?”

“I-talian,” said Arthur, unthinking. Then he gave LaBoeuf a kind of strange look. “Spanish? Ain’t you from Texas?”

“Yes, sir.” 

Arthur sighed.

"And this will square us away, financially speaking,” said Hosea. “For that time in Denver, the bounty on the train tracks. We let you have the full cake on that, and now you’ll do us the same.”

“Your terms are understood,” said Call.

“Is there anything else?” said Hosea. "Arthur? Mary Beth?"

“If we’re in agreement, then I’m good to go.” He looked at Mary Beth, softened, and took her by the hand. “You good?”

She smiled and kissed him on the nose. “I'm good.”

LaBoeuf smiled then, leaning in and still chomping on that cocaine gum like an addict. “Well ain’t you two cute,” he said, pointing with the knife. “How long you been married?”

Arthur glared at him, but Mary Beth was easy to talk about her romance. “Just a week,” she said, looking at Arthur. “But we known each other a lot longer than that.”

“Well, congratulations,” said LaBoeuf.

“Thank you.”

“You got wives?” said Arthur, pocketing the cards, sipping his coffee.

“No, sir,” said Call.

“Neither one of you?”

“Call here’s got a boy,” said LaBoeuf, casually brandishing the knife in a nonthreatening manner. “Well, more like a teenager at this point. But his momma ain’t no more. Went by the wayside years ago.”

“Thank you,” said Call. He was observing the depths of his untouched coffee. He had his hands folded, gentlemanly, in his lap. “I believe we’re finished here. LaBoeuf and I will be staying at the Parlor House in Rhodes for the purposes of future correspondence.”

“Wonderful," said Hosea, rapping on the table once. "We’ll be in touch soon, gentlemen. The game has been scheduled for one week from Friday.”

“Adios,” said LaBoeuf, saluting the knife as a psychopath.

Arthur, Mary Beth, and Hosea left the bar.

 

“That man is a veritable moron,” said Arthur. They turned the corner, stopped at the horses. “I ain't one to judge, but goddam.”

“Which man?”

“LaBoeuf."

"Well, I’m not sure about his specific credentials," said Hosea, "but he’s partnered up with Woodrow Call on this one, and Call and I go way back. He’s a good Ranger, an ex-rustler if I remember straight, knows every corner of this god forsaken country and the people in it. LaBoeuf may not be the most cultured among us, but if Call trusts him, then I do, too.”

“Fine,” said Arthur.

“Do you know what happened to his wife?” said Mary Beth.

“I don't believe they were ever married,” said Hosea. “But it was Typhoid that got her. Or, at least I think it was Typhoid. Five or six years ago.”

“Just like my momma,” said Mary Beth.

“Yes, well, sweetheart, a lot of good people have gone that way, I’m afraid.”

“It’s sad,” she said, placing her hand over her abdomen, briefly, like it comforted her.

“I think we’re gonna stay, Hosea,” said Arthur, patting Diana behind the ears—he’d had to take her out in Sarah’s wake. “Kick around the city a little bit. Take in a show, spend the night.”

“You gonna look at the stable for a new mare?”

“Perhaps,” said Arthur. “I ain’t decided yet.”

“Maybe you’ll go back into the wild, break your own.”

“Maybe,” said Arthur, a little blue at the thought of it.

“We'll see you back at camp then.” Hosea mounted up, then glanced down at the two of them as he settled in his saddle. A horse and buggy went by in the background. The streets were starting to bustle with the day. It was warm and muggy, and there as a street fair somewhere. There were children walking around, holding pinwheels, and you could smell the corn-on-the-cob, grilling. “Thank you both,” Hosea continued, his hands on the reins, “for entertaining those men. It’ll be a good score. Of course, it’s still like we said. If, at any time, you get a bad feeling, and you wanna call it off, just say so.”

“Thanks, Hosea,” said Arthur.

Mary Beth smiled, leaning on Watson dreamily, and petting her pretty black mane. “Yes, thank you.”

They exchanged goodbyes, and then Hosea was off, trotting through the city streets, tipping his hat so diplomatically to strangers.

Arthur felt Mary Beth then, her hand on his back. “You okay?” she said, seeming to sense his restlessness.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he said. He smiled and put his arm around her. He placed a toothpick between his teeth and sighed. “Just a little sad is all. About the old girl.”

“I know,” she said. She put her head on his shoulder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledgments for this Chapters 35 and 36: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Texas Ranger Woodrow F. Call is borrowed from the Lonesome Dove series by Larry McMurtry; Texas Ranger LaBoeuf is borrowed from the novel True Grit by Charles Portis. I also won't lie when I say that their characterizations are informed by the actors who play them: Tommy Lee Jones as Call in the 1989 Lonesome Dove miniseries, and Matt Damon as LaBoeuf in the 2010 adaptation of True Grit._
> 
>  
> 
> _Some exchanges in this chapter have been adapted directly from lines in the Red Dead Redemption 2 story mission "American Fathers I."_
> 
>  
> 
> -gala


	37. Stand By Your Man, Pt. 2

After leaving the saloon, they left their horses tied up and took a walk up to the park. On their way, they stumbled upon that street fair, which was along one of the main drags, at the center of the city. There were flags and colorful bunting everywhere, and lots of pinwheels and bubbles, making the world feel pretty and alive. They’d never really been to a street fair like this before. There was a man making balloon animals on the corner, beside a stop sign, surrounded by children. It was something neither Arthur nor Mary Beth had seen in a long time, so they stopped to watch for a little while as the children laughed and clamored for his attention, and then Arthur bought Mary Beth a tulip from a vender in a straw hat, and she blushed.

They bought hot dogs for lunch and a loaf of stale bread and they walked to the park to sit on a bench and feed the ducks. Then, they walked some more. Arthur took out his deck of cards. He showed Mary Beth a couple tricks he’d learned off Trelawny in years past and a couple more he had invented himself. She was captivated and as she sat admiring his gumption in the summertime sun and how it made his hair gold, she thought about how thankful she was to have found a man so good and so true to her, and how for a long time, she had never thought it possible, living the way she did.

“Hey,” she said then, noticing something. She was watching through the crowd in the park and she thought she saw a man she recognized. “Hey, baby. You see that country-lookin guy over there? With them Native men?”

Arthur squinted after her, seeing what she saw. “Yeah, I do.”

“It’s Evelyn Miller,” she said, holding her tulip. “That’s him ain’t it?”

“It is indeed.”

“What’s he doing there? And are those the same men from the party?”

“That there’s a government building,” said Arthur. “But I ain’t sure.”

“Let’s go say hi.”

Arthur thought on it, grinding the toothpick between his teeth and then spat it to the grass. He had a funny feeling. “I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

He sighed. “Could be they’re busy.”

“They don’t look busy. Come on, Arthur. He’s a famous writer. I wonder if he’d remember us.”

So they walked over, arm in arm. When they got close, Arthur puffed up a little bit and assumed his more proper and upright posture. “Excuse me, Mr. Miller?” he said.

“Yes,” said Evelyn Miller. He turned toward them both in his stately manner. He was a man of the southern tradition and seemed to recognize them at once. “Ah, haven’t I met you two?”

“Yes, you have,” said Arthur. He held out his hand. They shook. “I’m Arthur Morgan. This is my wife, Mary Beth. You may actually remember us as the Kilgores, but that’s a bad alias.”

Miller had kind eyes. He smiled in recognition. “The Kilgores,” he said. “Why, of course. That ghastly party. You escorted a drunken fool from the premises if I remember correctly.”

“That, I did,” said Arthur. "Escorting drunken fools is one of my finer specialties."

Miller laughed. He addressed Mary Beth in a gentlemanly fashion. “Mrs. Kilgore. You are as lovely as I remember.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Miller,” said Mary Beth. She made a curtsy. “But you can just call me Mary Beth. Or Mrs. Morgan, if you’d prefer.”

“Noted,” said Miller. “This is quite the coincidence. Oddly enough, I was just speaking with the mayor about you two the other day.”

“The mayor?” said Arthur.

“That’s right,” said Miller. “I don’t mean to be awkward, but I just—I wonder if I might say something rude about it.”

“Go right on ahead,” said Arthur.

“The mayor, well. He thinks you stole from him.”

The Chief and who Arthur assumed to be his son stood nearby in silence, but they did not seem disinterested. Arthur gave Miller a kind of careful look. He didn’t like the notion of having entered into the casual conversations of polite circles. “Stole from him, huh?”

“To be clear,” Miller went on, “he wasn’t very upset about it. He rather liked the two of you.”

“I see.”

“Do you…well, that is to say…” He removed his hat. He shuffled in his shoes nervously.

“You got ants in your pants, Mr. Miller?” said Arthur.

“No,” said Miller, blushing. “No. I just wondered—is that something you can do? Steal things?”

“Excuse me?”

“I apologize,” said Miller. “I just. Well.” He looked at Mary Beth, seemingly conflicted. “I did not mean to imply—”

“Imply what?” she said, feigning that demure sensibility of hers. “That we’d rob a politician at his own party? That’s some highfalutin accusation, even for us.”

This confused him. He shook out his head a little and then looked at Arthur. “I thought she was an oil heiress from Texas.”

Arthur chuckled. “Well, that is the story. In any case I must ask if there is a reason you are asking me to incriminate myself, Mr. Miller. We didn’t come over here to enter into the wrath of the law. We just wanted to say hello.”

“No, no. Well. Not formally at least.” He turned to the chief and his son then, ushering them into the conversation as if he had been remiss. “Have you met? This is Rains Fall, a great chief, and his son, Eagle Flies.”

Arthur and Mary Beth both nodded, said hello. Eagle Flies must have been about twenty-two or twenty-three. A little younger than John. He had some kind of anger in his eyes, but it was not menacing. It was disassociated from man or object and seemed to turn outwardly upon the world as one single, existential atrocity. "How do you do," said Arthur.

“We have not met officially,” said Rains Fall. He wore a dark hat and jacket, as if to hide himself. “We saw you many months ago, however, on the wagon train, crossing the river at Cumberland Falls. Do you remember?”

“I do,” said Arthur.

“Mrs. Morgan, I remember you fondly from the party. Though we did not speak, many spoke well of you.”

Mary Beth smiled politely, seeming surprised. “I didn’t realize I’d made such a splash,” she said.

“Well, I remember.”

“Those are some mighty powers of observation,” said Arthur.

Rains Fall glanced away, heavily beneath the brim of his hat. He had much to say. “Indeed. My people, if we even are a people anymore, were once lead by our powers of observation. We have fought hard, and we have lost a great deal, Mr. Morgan. In the wake of our defeat, we have been repeatedly punished and removed from our land. Now, I am told that we are to be moved again. That is why we are here."

"I thought there was treaties for all that."

"There are treaties," said Rains Fall. "We've made peace treaties. Many, in fact. But those treaties are being been broken."

“In their most recent effort to uproot his tribe, the State Government is clearly contravening one of these peace treaties, proposed and signed only three years ago,” said Miller. "Don't you see?"

Eagle Flies stood by sadly, in deference to his father, seeming unwilling to look Arthur in the eye. Arthur glanced at Miller and felt Mary Beth renew her grip on his arm as if to signal that she was feeling things deeply and that the trajectory of the conversation were about to change.

"What are we getting at here," said Arthur.

“This will lead to war,” said Eagle Flies. He lifted his chin amidst the proposal. His father quelled him with wise words that seemed removed from the situation, high above, but Arthur could see the sort of hot indifference inside Eagle Flies and how he dismissed it. In his heart Arthur agreed with such anger, but he sensed now, too, as if he were tossing adrift in an endless ocean of responsibilities and getting too far from shore to turn back.

“It’s a bad business,” he said to them all, in an effort to end the conversation. “I’m mighty sorry.”

Even still, Miller pressed on. “It’s to do with oil,” he said. “I know it, but I need the proof.”

“What kind of proof?” said Mary Beth.

Arthur cleared his throat, went ignored.

“I believe there were some prospectors who were up on their land a few months ago who have filed reports with Leviticus Cornwall and the State Government, claiming huge reserves of oil under their land.”

“You can do that?” said Mary Beth. “Claim something that’s underneath something else? Ain’t the land just the land?”

“You would think so,” said Eagle Flies.

“Anyway,” said Miller. “If we could just get our hands on those reports. That would be the proof we need.”

There was a dull silence then, filled only by the sounds of the surrounding street fair and all of its ignorant bliss. Arthur was staring at Miller. It all came together and he was promptly put upon. “You want me to try and steal it,” he said.

Miller stared at him, a little slack-jawed. “Well, obviously they can’t, and even more obviously, I would be useless. Listen, I realize this is both a seemingly random and ridiculous request, but Mr. Morgan, we are desperate.”

Arthur was scratching at the back of his head then when he took a step back, as if to leave. Mary Beth watched him closely, still held onto him, waiting to see what he would do. “I ain’t no activist, Mr. Miller,” he said. “I’m real sorry for your predicament, but my wife and I, we’re working folk. We got problems and…a cause of our own. I hope you can understand.”

“We will pay you very handsomely, Mr. Morgan,” said Rains Fall, head on.

"That’s okay,” said Arthur.

But Mary Beth tugged him back. "Arthur," she whispered. "Wait."

This seemed to bring him frustration. “Mary Beth,” he said, lowering his voice. He turned his back to the men for a moment to privately address her. “I ain’t doing this. We got enough on our plate.”

"But you'll help them Rangers hunt that killer from Texas? Don’t you hear this man?” she said. “The government is stealing from him. That ain’t right.”

“I know it ain’t right. And I hear what you're saying, but it ain't the same. Hunting Raiders for the law is easy work I can do with my eyes closed, but going up against the government? That’s a whole other can of worms, Mary Beth and it ain't in our best interest.”

She looked at him. He had a good deal of hefty concern in his eyes and was soft to her. He was talking about her and their future and she understood this time. “Okay,” she said, giving in. She let it go.

But Rains Fall was insistent. “Please, Mr. Morgan,” he said.

Arthur glanced at him over his shoulder. Even still she could tell he was feeling things. He was very conflicted. “You want me to put myself in danger for a damn cause?" he said. "How much we talking then.”

“I told you,” said Eagle Flies to Rains Fall. “They’re all mercenaries.”

“Hey,” said Mary Beth, forcefully. She took a step forward. This surprised Eagle Flies. “It ain’t like that. You don’t know him.”

But Arthur calmed her. “It’s okay, Mary Beth,” he said. He turned to her, palmed her cheeks and smoothed her hair down her neck. She had only been defending him. “It’s okay. He’s right. Not about you, but about me, he's right.” Then he looked back at Eagle Flies. He removed himself from Mary Beth and addressed him man to man. “You wanna know about me?” he said.

“What about you."

“What about this?" said Arthur. "I got a price on my head in two states, my friend. The government don’t like me anymore than it does you, and like you, I been running for as long as I can remember. The same thing goes for my wife here, hence her anger. Like you, our time in this place is coming to a fast finish, and our cause is getting out of here with our lives and the lives of our loved ones. When it comes to any and all things extracurricular to that cause, well, morality is a concept of due relativity, Eagle Flies, and we don’t bend so easy. Now, I agree with you, and I find your dilemma mighty disturbing. But I got a woman and a family, and I gotta get paid for the risks I take, particularly when it comes to stealing from the State Government. Do you understand?”

Eagle Flies said nothing. He looked back at Mary Beth, but she was looking away at the cobblestone now. Rains Fall took over. He said, “We understand, Mr. Morgan. And we will pay.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur. He looked away, looked at her. He could not believe what he was agreeing to.

“You’ll meet my son in three days up near Citadel Rock, just west of the oil fields.”

Arthur nodded. “Fine.”

“We are very grateful for your help,” said Rains Fall, with seriousness. He looked at Mary Beth as well. “We are grateful to both of you.”

Mary Beth smiled, weakly. Arthur could tell she was still upset.

“You’re welcome,” said Arthur. He took her hand as Evelyn Miller broke the conversation, bringing up something or other about the senator.

“This whole thing is a waste of time,” grumbled Eagle Flies. 

Rains Fall made to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder. He said, “We must try everything, son.”

Arthur looked away. That sentiment he had heard many times before.

 

Arthur felt himself stretched by circumstance after that. It was an old sensation very familiar to him. Mary Beth spoke little on their return walk through the town. She suggested they visit the stable, but Arthur was not ready for that. He didn’t fancy horse shopping at the time being, and she understood. They had earlier discussed buying tickets to a show, and so they began to head in the direction of the theater. Arthur could tell she was still cooling off. The day had become serious very quickly, and he could sense her processing as they went along, and even as he knew she did not desire to be preoccupied or for it to derail the day, he was grateful to her. Despite what many would have believed he did not have many people in his life who would defend him like she had so casually that day. 

When they got to the theater, Arthur paid for the tickets, and then they went inside where it was only about half-full. They sat down in a row toward the back. Mary Beth had begun to loosen up a little at her excitement for the picture show. She had only ever been to one. Arthur waited until the lights went down, and a hush fell over the meager crowd, and then he took her hands into his in seriousness.

“What’s the matter?” she said, quietly, looking at him.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing is the matter. I just—before the picture starts, I wanted to thank you, Mary Beth." 

“Thank me? For what?”

“For defending me today," he said, folding his hands over hers, completely. "With Eagle Flies. You didn't have to, but you did. You did it with those Rangers, too. You got my back. You always have, even when we was just friends, and I don't know that I've ever really thanked you for it.”

She smiled up at him, gracious, and she took hold of his ear and kissed him. “I’m always gonna have your back, Arthur,” she said. “This ain’t no one-sided arrangement, and you know that. You're welcome."

It was life-saving. The curtain went up. They turned to see, and the movie was perhaps a most preposterous show of artistic failure. They laughed, made fun of it a little, watched with their heads together, whispering. Even still, as they called it silly, they were having fun, and they had to admit it was sort of neat. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you much for reading. I appreciate all comments, big and small. -gala <3


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